


Shadows Of The Mess We Made

by fridaysblues (taemin)



Series: Taekai Spies AU [1]
Category: EXO (Band), SHINee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Burned Spy Makes Bad Decisions For Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 20:42:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2825498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taemin/pseuds/fridaysblues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jongin's cover is blown, he has to put his trust in the criminal he was supposed to assassinate. Burned spy AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

☠☠☠

**Seoul, 2023.**

When Jongin wakes up, it takes a second for his eyes to focus. He's in some cheap hotel—he thinks, anyway, based on the disgusting nicotine-yellow walls and a faded blue bedspread that feels like it's made of steel wool. He blinks against his swimming vision, eyelids gummy and crusted over from sleep, and the world suddenly becomes clear. The blinds are down but they're broken in several places, permanently buckled under the weight of curious hands trying to get a glimpse of the street below. There's a sharp throbbing in his wrist and without moving he can already tell it's going to hurt from the way his muscles pull.

It's only after he makes a tentative attempt to roll onto his stomach that he realizes he's not alone. There's a person sitting across the room from him, bathed in diffused light from the partially-drawn curtains. He's staring at Jongin, arms folded across his chest.

Jongin recognizes the mop of soft, honey-colored hair and groans. "What the fuck are you doing here?" He struggles to get up but a searing pain shoots through his elbow and he collapses against the mattress again, seething. "Where _is_ here, anyway?"

There's something on the tip of his tongue: _Bogotá—I'm supposed to be in Bogotá. I'm supposed to make contact with an expat named Moonkyu and then call Jongdae—fuck, Jongdae, does he know where I am?_ Taemin's voice cuts through the static and Jongin tunes back into his frequency, blinking slowly.

"Here? Seoul. But I wouldn't do that. Your wrist is fractured. And I'm not a doctor, but based on the way your side is bruised, I'd bet a few ribs, as well."

Jongin uses his good hand to tug the hem of his shirt up, frowning at the bluish-black contusion mapped across the broad curve of his ribcage. He lets the shirt drop. "Fuck." He knows he looks like hell and he's definitely felt worse before, but there's something about the enormity of the situation—the injuries, the vague memories of the job he'd been working on before waking up here that keep flickering through his mind, Taemin's mere _presence_ —that has him swallowing hard against the bile rising in his throat. "I shouldn't be here."

"You're lucky you're not dead." Taemin leans forward in his chair, fingers pressed together in a tent. "Colombians, Jongin? Or should I call you Kai? I don't know who you're supposed to be right now." He tosses a wallet onto the bed and Jongin closes his eyes, swallowing heavily.

"Fuck," he whispers again.

"Yeah," Taemin says after a moment. "Yeah. Heard chatter over the radio, something about a body in a room. Housekeeping called the police because you wouldn't wake up. You're lucky you landed right in the middle of my territory. Who knows what could've happened if someone else found you." He tips his head quizzically. "I mean, I guess I knew in the back of my head that you lived here. You told me so, remember?"

"Yeah," Jongin says gruffly, draping his arm over his face. "I remember."

"It's been, what, a year? Since you up and left in the middle of the night?"

"I had _no choice_ —"

"I know. That's what your note said." Taemin laughs wryly. "Isn't it against protocol to leave notes?"

 _It's against protocol to fall in love with a target, too,_ Jongin thinks dully as he nods. "I didn't want you to think it was anything you did."

"Why would I have thought that?" Taemin uncrosses his legs and stands, hand extended. "Come on. You need a shower."

"What day is it?" Jongin chokes back a whimper when he feels the shift of bone under skin. He's all too familiar with this pain—he's lost track of how many times he's broken a rib or two, but it's still painful every single time. Takes forever to heal, too. _Fuck._ That's just what he needs. It'll be another six weeks, minimum, before he's ready to go back out into the field. That means six weeks of boredom and conditioning, maybe brushing up on some dialects he's getting rusty on. Six weeks of staying put in one place. That shit always makes Jongin antsy.

Taemin, to his credit, doesn't seem interested in making Jongin suffer any further. He slots himself underneath Jongin's good arm and manages to hoist him to his feet without too much strain. "It's Friday," he says casually, hand steadying Jongin's wobbling hips to guide him towards the bathroom. "Housekeeping said you checked in on Tuesday."

"Did I? I've been out for three days?" Jongin frowns. "Fuck. I don't remember that."

"What _do_ you remember? How did you get here?" Taemin helps him stand against the counter and turns on the tap so Jongin can splash water on his face. The bathroom's about as grimy as the room. There's a weird, glossy film of soap-scum on every visible surface. The shower probably hasn't seen a bottle of bleach in years, judging by the tile criss-crossed by ugly, blackened grout that looks like a biologist's wet dream.

Jongin grimaces. "I don't know. I don't remember."

"I wondered, you know," Taemin says quietly, locating a relatively clean towel from a stack on the toilet tank. He holds it out, eyes soft, and gestures for Jongin to get undressed.

"You wondered?" Jongin queries, watching Taemin retreat from the bathroom to give him a little privacy. Taemin pauses at the door for a beat but does not turn around.

"If you were still alive."

 

Jongin exits the bathroom forty minutes later, toweling his hair dry. It's blond at the moment (one of Jongdae's dumber ideas for a cover ID, he thinks ruefully—they kept calling him _pretty boy_ and blowing kisses at him in the streets) and long enough to cling limply to his forehead. He'd put his old clothes back on (buttoning his jeans had been especially uncomfortable with a broken wrist) and even though he's used to roughing it or hiding out in the same place for weeks on end on a mission, suddenly all he wants is a clean set of clothes and a comfortable bed. Maybe a few days to himself until he's on the road to recovery.

Taemin's lying flat on his stomach across the bed, chin resting in the bend of his elbow while he flicks through the television's six fuzzy channels over and over as if he'll magically stumble across something worth watching.

"Took you long enough."

Jongin abandons the damp towel on the floor and eases himself onto the edge of the mattress. "Hard to wash your back when you can't move your arm."

"Could've yelled for help." Jongin hears the grin in Taemin's voice as he adds, offhandedly, "We've taken showers together. You know I'm good with a sponge."

There's a flash of something in his memory—hands memorizing Taemin's shape, skinny-dipping in the river, a lazy handjob on the bank while they waited for the sun to dry their bodies—but it's gone just as fast. He looks at the phone on the side table.

"I need to make a call."

"Don't let me stop you."

Jongin purses his lips. He's not supposed to have _these_ conversations in front of anyone—but Taemin's not just anyone, and besides, _he knows_. He knows his name isn't Kai but Kim Jongin, knows that he's—well. Knows he's not who he tells people he is.

He picks up the receiver, dials a number he's known by heart for nearly ten years now. Soojung answers after the second ring and his heart leaps up into his throat, relieved to hear a familiar voice. "Soojung—it's Jongin, something—I'm in Seoul, I'm not sure what happened. Is Jongdae there?"

There's an agonizingly long pause on the other end. "I'm sorry," Soojung says finally. "You must have the wrong number. There's no one here by that name."

The blood in his veins turns to slush. "You—excuse me? Soojung? What's—what's going on? I'm in Seoul and I don't remember how I got here—"

"I'm sorry, sir."

" _Sir_? Soojung, very funny—put Jongdae on, something went wrong with the Colombia job—" The dial tone in his ear feels more like a slap across his face. He sets the phone back on its cradle and frowns. "What the fuck? She pretended she had no idea who I was. What the fuck is going on?"

Taemin sighs and reaches over to the side table. "I think this might have something to do with it." He holds up a newspaper. _Traitor Who Sold State Secrets Eludes Capture in Colombia._ Underneath the headline, there's a blurry picture of him that looks as though it's been taken from a video surveillance feed. His stomach clenches.

"What's going on? I—where did they get that?" He recognizes his outfit—same one he'd woken up in. Minus the bloodstains, of course.

"Somebody knew what they were looking for," Taemin says, smoothing the folds out of the paper. "Which, uh, reminds me. Did—did they ever know? Did you tell anyone—about me?"

Jongin shakes his head. "No. Nobody knows."

The way his expression changes would be imperceptible to anyone who hadn't held that face in his hands underneath a mosquito net in the middle of the jungle, pressed open-mouthed kisses into those cheekbones and full lips. But Jongin has. Jongin notices.

"Taemin. It was for your safety. We weren't—I wasn't—" he breaks off, flushing. "I failed to complete the mission. They didn't need to know. It would have only complicated things for you." He looks back at the newspaper and his stomach curdles with fear. Regardless of whether or not the headline is true, this is not good. They've got his picture. They published his goddamn picture along with an article detailing his work for the National Intelligence Service.

This is the death knell of a spy's career: his cover permanently blown, face peering out from magazine racks at shoppers in the grocery store to be memorized by every harried mother convinced she's doing her country a favor. _Let me be,_ he thinks desperately. _I just want to do my job. This is what I'm good at. I don't have anything else._

"Does—does the news come in on that thing?" Jongin croaks, feeling light-headed. He can sense Taemin's reluctance in the way his fingers slowly curl around the remote to click three channels forward.

As soon as he does, Jongin really wishes he hadn't.

He swallows and closes his eyes, heart pounding crazily in his chest. _No. No._ He opens them again. His fucking personnel file is spread out on television; or, at least, the official one, the manufactured one. There's no mention of the operation in Afghanistan, the eight weeks he spent hiding in a cave somewhere in Mongolia, the year he spent deep undercover in North Korea. It's strange to see, reads like a story about someone else until a picture flashes across the screen.

He's ten years younger there, barely nineteen. The close-cropped style makes his face look downright babyish, rounded cheeks almost cherubic. _Innocent,_ he decides, and it's probably true enough of the kid he was back then. He hadn't had a fucking clue what he was getting into. That kid's the one who enlisted fresh out of high school just to _get it the fuck over with_ but discovered he loved it enough to stay. That kid learned cursory Mandarin from the _hasa_ during basic, a guy named Jongdae with a feline smile and a strong jawline who wasn't afraid to deck anyone who dared to call him _pretty_. Jongdae's the one who taught him how to drink soju and got him hooked on cigarettes. Jongin’s propensity for picking up languages got him noticed and recommended for service with the _NIS_. He studied Japanese and Russian and Farsi, code work, engineering. He spent two nerve-wracking weeks in bomb tech school getting a crash course on the best way to build a bomb. Nearly ten years later and the fact that he knows how to diffuse one doesn't change the fact that he's fucking terrified of heavy weapons.

There's no mention of Jongdae on the screen, nothing about how he'd convinced him to volunteer for special ops and, later, when Jongdae became his handler, nothing about how they'd spent hours prepping him for his assignments: _Macau_ , _Colombia_ , _Indonesia_ , _Thailand_. Just baseless, bizarre accusations leveled against him.

On the national news.

"That's not your best angle," Taemin says dryly. "I'd sue."

"I will," Jongin snaps, eyes fierce. He almost means it. "It's a lie, Taemin. I'm—I'm not—the things they're saying I did. I didn't do them."

"Of course you didn't. You think I trust the government? You should hear what they have to say about me."

Jongin swallows. "I have, actually."

Realization hits Taemin later than it probably should have, considering he's known about Jongin's affiliations for a year now. "Fuck. I guess you would, wouldn't you?" He looks back at the television. His lips tighten. "Still."

Jongin watches in rapt horror as the flickering images on the screen turn to personal ones. God only knows where they found _those_. He endures the ones from his high school graduation before he clears his throat. "Turn it off."

The noise of the traffic outside rumbles through the thin walls. A couple's having an argument next door and the sound is carrying so well that Jongin can make out entire phrases: _"never loved me—who is she?—why are you here?"_ His wrist fucking _throbs_ and he probably hasn't eaten in three days and all he wants is to get some goddamn answers. He rakes his hand through his hair and sighs.

"I need to talk to someone."

"You need to splint that wrist."

Jongin shoots Taemin the most withering look he can manage through the pain that's currently shooting up his arm. "It's fine."

"You need to take care of these things. You know," Taemin says, rolling up onto his knees, "this is why you're not even thirty and your bones crack like you're ninety."

"Shut up." Jongin frowns. Taemin's right, of course—he can't remember the last time he's had a broken bone set properly. This kind of thing always happens to him in the field, when he's miles away from any sort of clinic that practices 21st century medicine. He's gotten too used to working through the pain. Can't even stand aspirin, really, although he'll take it if there's nothing else and he absolutely needs to catch some sleep.

"You look like shit," Taemin announces. He's grinning.

Jongin casts a sidelong glance in his direction. "I know. I'm sorry, I'll ask them to be gentler next time someone kicks my ass."

Taemin's mouth curls in amusement. "Remember to say please. That always works. Especially with the big Russian bastards—"

"I need to go."

Taemin nods, eyes lowering to the carpet. "I figured."

"Can you—I need to get to Chanyeol. He's in Itaewon."

"You realize people are looking for you," Taemin says. "You need to stay _away_ from crowded areas—"

"I just need to know what's going on. With all the people coming in and out of the club—I'm sure he's heard _something_." Jongin looks apologetic. "He's my best friend, he's probably seen the news—"

"I know." Taemin nods a few times too many, rising to his feet. "Afterwards. If you need a place to stay, uh, my place... I've got room. You can crash with me. If you want."

Jongin raises an eyebrow. "Your place? You're back in Seoul?"

Taemin smirks. "Is there a problem?"

"No, no—just doesn't seem like you. You were doing pretty well for yourself."

"I do alright here, too." Taemin offers him a hand. "Come on. It'll be dark soon."

☠☠☠

**Seoul, 2022.**

Jongin turns twenty-eight and spends the day restless and morose, sulking around headquarters and pestering Soojung. He hasn't had shit to do since he returned from Afghanistan back in December. Jongdae's been in a meeting all day upstairs with the director of the NIS and isn't responding to any of the dozens of text messages Jongin sends.

"Jongin. Don't you have any hobbies? Friends?" Soojung snaps, after he spends an hour doodling on her memo pad and sticking the results to her computer monitor with masking tape.

He blinks. "Aren't we friends?"

"You wish." She smiles patiently and plucks at a loose thread on the cuff of her blouse. "Showing up at my apartment drunk twice a year does not a friendship make, Jongin."

"That hurts." He puts his hands over his heart and composes his face into his best attempt at a pout. She rolls her eyes.

"Don't." She pulls his latest masterpiece aside so she can peer at the spreadsheet she's been working on. "Look. Go give your little friend a call. What was his name again? Chanyeol?"

"Little?" Jongin snorts. "You must be thinking of Kyungsoo. And I haven't—"

The door slams loudly against the wall when Jongdae flings it open. "Jongin! So glad you're here."

Soojung cringes, a hand across her face. "Can't you ever just come inside without making a scene?" she asks through her fingers. "I think you made a dent in the wall."

Baekhyun trails in behind Jongdae. He pauses to check the wall, palms caressing the plaster in careful deliberation before he turns. "No damage." He grins. "I think it bounced."

Soojung rolls her eyes so hard Jongin swears he can hear them knock around in her skull.

"Sorry, Soojung," Jongdae greets, waving a manila folder in Jongin's face. "You, you impatient asshole. Blowing up my phone when I'm in a meeting with the director of the NIS. I swear to God, Jongin, if you're not on fucking fire, don't call me that many times in a row." He pauses, face scrunched in thought. "Actually, even then—"

"I'm _bored_ ," Jongin interrupts. "I want a job."

Jongdae purses his lips. "Well, today's your lucky day." He gestures with the folder. "Let's go talk in the conference room. Soojung? Hold calls, okay? Unless it's the director, of course."

Soojung nods and returns to her work on the computer. Jongin trails behind Jongdae into the conference room. Baekhyun joins them after a moment, three cups of coffee balanced precariously between his slender fingers. He sets one each in front of Jongdae and Jongin and keeps the third one for himself, sipping tentatively at the scorching, bitter liquid.

"What is it?" Jongin prompts after an agonizing stretch of watching Jongdae blow steam off his coffee.

Jongdae looks at him from underneath his eyebrows. "There's been an uptick in the number of illegal guns seized on the streets lately."

Jongin hums in acknowledgment. He'd heard. The most recent shooting was only a few days ago, some young guy gunned down in an alley in Jongro. In a country where gun crime's mercifully rare, this many shootings this early in the year is unheard of. Last year there'd been a dozen _total._ It's only January and it's the second homicide in as many weeks. They're on track to break all sorts of records, an exponential growth in violent crime, most of which committed with black market weapons smuggled in from exporters from the Golden Triangle. Last week the news anchor on _KBS_ dubbed Seoul 'the next New York' and every headline since has run with the terrifying notion that nobody's safe anymore.

Something's got to be done.

Which is how he finds himself the lone passenger of a KAI KUH-1 Surion chartered straight for Chiang Saen. The helicopter's capacity is closer to a dozen but he's still folded in half behind the pilot, headset crackling in his ear over the growling whir of the rotor above. Jongdae made all of the _Kai_ jokes in reference to his cover ID in between the salient details of his briefing.

Jongin's supposed to take a boat down the Mekong River and rendezvous with a local contact who's been monitoring the situation on the ground. If their intel is sound—which it seems to be—there's a shipment due out this week. Jongin's got a narrow window to work with: establish contact with the local arms dealer and infiltrate his camp. He's got two days to report specifics back to base. They need numbers: what, when. How much. He hates two part missions like this because it means he's out of touch for weeks on end while he infiltrates. "Can't I just shoot him and get the hell out of there?" he whines at Jongdae.

"No. We need to know what he knows first," Jongdae chides. "Come on. You like camping. This'll be fun for you. A nice vacation."

Vacation. Sure. Jongin snorts. Twenty-eight days and he'll be back on a helicopter much like this one, probably nursing a sunburn and complaining about the bug bites in places he can't reach to scratch.

The file on Lee Taemin is suspiciously light. Jongin thumbs through it a few times hoping to glean something, but there's nothing much to say. Korean-born, started young as a look-out for the fledgling Seoul branch of the _Ssang Yong Pa_ gang out of Gwangju. When they were busted in a nightclub raid just before New Year's Eve back in 2011 he was reported missing, presumed dead until he began showing up on Interpol's radar about a year and a half ago—accounts of some pale, pretty-faced kid organizing shipments of German-made Heckler  & Koch MP5s and surplus M16A1s left over from the Vietnam War up the river to be smuggled into port cities: Macau, Kaohsiung, Busan, Incheon. That's it—guy's a fucking ghost. Jongdae's parting words echo in the back of his mind: _"He's so far off the grid you're going to need a pair of tweezers to get him out of the jungle."_

☠☠☠

**Seoul, 2023.**

It's strange to be back in Itaewon after being overseas for so long. He almost feels like he's on assignment again. He's been in clubs all over the world and they're all boring after a while, all variations on the same theme of neon lights, thumping bass, and overpriced booze. This club looks roughly the same as every other iteration—on the outside, at least: dirty brick facade, velvet rope snaking around the corner, a burly, stern-faced bouncer-type stationed at the door. It's what's inside that keeps him coming back.

There's a short guy standing outside the back entrance with a cigarette dangling from his lips. Jongin snatches it between two fingers and takes a long drag.

"You're not supposed to be sniffing around here."

"And yet this is where I ended up," Jongin replies calmly, smoke curling slowly from his nostrils. "Nice to see you too, Kyungsoo."

"Am I talking to a ghost right now? I read a report this morning that said you're probably dead." He sighs. "Ah, grief does some weird things to people. I must be going crazy."

Jongin returns the cigarette. "Are you disappointed that I'm not?"

Kyungsoo regards him impassively. "I don't really care either way. Chanyeol'll be relieved though, I think. He said he didn't care but I think he was worried when he saw the headline in the paper." He snorts, head shaking. "You really pissed someone off this time, Jongin."

"I haven't—the papers—it's a lie, Kyungsoo." Jongin's pretty tired of explaining himself but he feels like he has to. Kyungsoo's one of the good guys—Chanyeol's first employee back when he inherited the bar from his father. "I didn't do what they're saying I did—you think I'd sell secrets to anyone? _You_ don't even know what I do, and I tell you everything."

Kyungsoo heaves a massive sigh. "I know, Jongin. Don't you think I know you better than that?" He claps a hand on Jongin's back. It sends shockwaves of pain radiating up his torso from his broken ribs. He struggles to keep it from registering in his face and mostly fails. Kyungsoo's eyebrows lift in surprise. "Shit—you okay?"

"Fine," Jongin bites out. "Where is he?"

Kyungsoo purses his lips. "He's inside. Getting ready for the day. You sticking around?"

"Can't," Jongin throws over his shoulder as he yanks open the door. "Someone's waiting for me."

 

It feels like leaping back in time when Jongin steps inside the club. Nothing's changed. Same corner booth with the cracking red vinyl, same paint peeling off the walls, same mahogany bar top with the worn lacquer. It even _smells_ the same: the faint, pleasant mingling of cigarettes, beer, and cologne.

Chanyeol's sitting in his usual seat at the corner, gazing at a stack of papers piled high on the bar. Receipts, invoices. The weekly food order. He makes note of something on a yellow legal pad and frowns, biting the pencil's eraser between his front teeth. Jongin slides onto the stool to his left and waits patiently for Chanyeol to put the pencil down and acknowledge him.

"Thought you were dead." Chanyeol shakes the ice in his glass just enough to dislodge it. It makes a soft, tinkling sound.

Jongin shrugs. "I'm not."

Chanyeol purses his lips. "I can't offer you a place to stay right now, Jongin, not when you're a _fugitive_ —"

"I'm fine," Jongin interrupts. "But thanks."

Chanyeol swivels in his seat to give Jongin a _look_ from underneath his eyebrows. "That's not what I've been hearing these days."

Jongin leans forward eagerly. "What _have_ you been hearing?"

Chanyeol laughs, a throaty chuckle that peters out into nothing. It's an attractive sound—his bartender laugh, the one he saves for customers. Dry, polite. It's not his real laugh, the helpless, convulsive chortling Jongin's had ringing in his ears ever since he walked into the army barracks ten years ago and met his bunkmate.

"So, you're here to pump me for information, is that it?"

"No," Jongin says simply.

"No? No what?" Chanyeol rolls his eyes and brings the rim of the glass up to his plush mouth. "Jongin, please," he mutters around an ice cube. "Don't lie to me. I know all your tells."

"That's not—yeah, I have some questions, but that's not—the news said I was dead," Jongin stammers. He rescues the glass out of Chanyeol's hand and drains the entire thing with a steady swallow. Chanyeol sits back and crosses his arms in front of his chest but doesn't stop him. "I wanted you to know it wasn't true."

"Could have written a note. Could have called. Instead, you come here—you're in some _deep_ shit, Jongin, it's on every channel—and I can't get in the middle of it—"

"I wanted you to see it for yourself."

"Alright then." Chanyeol looks up at Kyungsoo, who's resumed his place behind the bar. "Now I've seen."

Kyungsoo pushes another glass of something into Jongin's hands and winks before turning back around to rearrange the healthy collection of scotch on the shelves. Jongin tips the contents down his throat, grimacing slightly at the clean burn that works its way to his stomach, heat pooling all the way down to his toes.

"What did you do to your wrist this time?" Chanyeol asks finally, breaking the silence between them. Jongin looks down at the limb he's been cradling protectively in his lap and shakes his head. "Do I even want to know?"

"It's fine."

"Doesn't look fine."

"You're not going to tell me what you've been hearing, are you?"

Chanyeol shrugs. "I wish I knew more than what I've been seeing on the news. You've seen what they're saying, right? You _didn't_ —"

"No. Chanyeol, no. Of course I didn't."

"I didn't think you did. Didn't sound like you at all. Just—wanted to be sure." He swivels in his seat to look at Jongin, round eyes searching for something—another tell, maybe, but Jongin's wide open in front of Chanyeol. Always has been. "I'll ask around," he says after a moment, putting a hand on Jongin's shoulder. "Check back in a few days."

Jongin nods. "Thanks, Chanyeol. I appreciate it. I owe you one."

"You owe me more than one. It's okay. I'm not keeping score."

"I am," Kyungsoo calls from the other end of the bar. "You're in deep, Jongin."

"Hey. Are you—uh, are you going to stick around and get something to eat?" Chanyeol watches Jongin press an anxious thumb against his lower lip and bite it. His face falls. "That's a no."

"I can't," Jongin says, voice full of regret. "I've really got to get back, I—"

Chanyeol puts a hand up. "It's fine. I don't need to know why. Maybe next time." His cheek dimples. "I've been working on some new stuff for the menu since the last time you were here."

Yeah. Next time. "You know they're going to come ask you—if you've seen me."

"They already have, actually," Chanyeol says. He doesn't meet Jongin's eyes.

"And?" Jongin waits.

"I told them I didn't know anything about where you were. Which was true."

"And now?"

"Quiet all night here. Haven't seen a thing." 

Kyungsoo casually lifts a shoulder to his ear. "Jongin who?"

"There you go," Chanyeol says. A fond smile works its way across his face, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Don't worry, Jongin."

The bar stool creaks in protest as Jongin moves to leave. Chanyeol must see something—a microsecond grimace, the slow way Jongin shuffles his feet against the floor—and puts out his hands to catch Jongin, just in case. "You look like shit, you know," he murmurs, echoing Taemin's words from earlier.

Jongin manages without any help, but slides a hand on the base of Chanyeol's neck in quiet thanks anyway. "Hyung," he murmurs, "don't worry so much, okay?"

Chanyeol doesn't move away. "Hard not to when you look like that," he says, more to his empty drink than to Jongin.

Jongin splits into a cheesy grin, hoping he doesn't come off looking too crazed. "Me? I'm handsome. I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yeah," Chanyeol scoffs. "You're something, alright. Take care of yourself," he calls, voice muffled by the door that swings shut on Jongin's way out.

☠☠☠

**Thailand, 2022.**

Taemin's camp is twenty miles inland from the river, a sprawl of a dozen or so makeshift huts and tents. It's temporary, built to pick up and move at a moment's notice. This is why it's so hard to pin him down: he doesn't stay in the same place for very long. He comes walking out of the jungle when Jongin arrives, looking for all the world like a hip young Seoulite with his pierced ears and his trendy combat boots, hair down past his shoulders. He doesn't look like an arms dealer. He doesn't even look old enough to drive.

"Hello!"

Jongin shades his eyes with the brim of his cap. This is the part he hates the most, the nagging doubt that skirts through his mind in the seconds before he introduces himself. It only lasts for a moment, the space in between two blinks, but every time it's enough to remind him to be careful. "Looking for _Mungkorn._ " It's what the locals call Taemin—Dragon. The kid in front of him looks more like a puppy.

Still, Jongin knows looks can be deceiving. He's read Taemin's file from cover to cover. He's seen the lists of shipments and suspected contents, the estimated earnings. The incidental reports of violence. No witnesses to anything—which could mean something, or it could mean absolutely nothing at all. Lee Taemin's dangerous, a wild card. Unpredictable.

"That's me." He smiles warmly, eyes narrowing into cheerful crescents. "Who's asking?"

"Me. Uh—I'm Kai," Jongin says.

"You're Korean," Taemin enthuses, and Jongin's grateful for the abrupt switch in languages. His Thai's rusty. "Don't see too many of us around here. Mostly Thai, some Chinese, a few Vietnamese." He laughs and puts his hand to his mouth. "Wow. It's weird to speak like this. I thought I'd forgotten how, it's been months since I've had anyone to talk to."

Jongin smiles despite the situation. "Glad I could help."

"Kai." Taemin lets the name roll on his tongue before he swallows it. "I feel like I should know you. Do I know you?"

"I don't think so." Jongin laughs nervously and shrugs his shoulders. "I work alone, mostly, try to keep my name out of things. I've got some product to move. Heard you were the guy to talk to."

"I could be." Taemin's hands delve into the back pockets of his shorts. "What kind of product are we talking here?"

"A few crates of Mark 14's."

Taemin's eyebrows lift. "Shit. Where'd you get your hands on something like that?"

"I know a guy." Jongin shrugs. He sees the interest in Taemin's face—he's got him right where he wants him. "Fell off the back of an American convoy in Afghanistan. Got them cheap and sold them for a good price. Just need to get them in the country. Guy's in Gwangju."

The name rings a bell. _Ssang Yong Pa_. Jongin watches Taemin's face light up with recognition. "Gwangju, huh? What did you say your name was? One more time." Taemin frowns. "I thought I knew everyone in the trade around here, especially the ex-pats."

"Kai. I'm not from here—just passing through on my way home." Jongin licks his lips. He doesn't break eye contact, stares harder at Taemin. He lets everything else clear from his mind and focuses on being _Kai_ , freelance arms dealer. "Just heard you're the best expediter for these kinds of things."

"Where's home?" Taemin asks. "Gwangju?"

"No. Seoul," Jongin replies. Taemin smiles again, the corners of his lips quirked up like a question mark. _Stick with what you know,_ Jongdae told him. _The easiest lies to believe are the ones that are mostly true._ "I'll pay."

"Of course you will." Taemin grins. "Let me take a look at what you've got and we'll talk terms."

☠☠☠

**Seoul, 2023.**

'Home' turns out to be an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Dongdaemun. Jongin laughs—this is Taemin, the way he finds somewhere quiet, somewhere all his own, right in the middle of utter chaos. The space is empty, save for a workbench, a small kitchen space, and a mattress lying in the middle of the floor.

Taemin's awake when Jongin arrives. He's tinkering with something, his work bench scattered with parts of a handgun he's obviously trying to clean. He looks up when Jongin clears his throat, brushing the hair out of his eyes with the back of his wrist. The corners of his mouth lift.

"I like what you've done with the place," Jongin says feebly, trying for humor. Predictably, it flops. Taemin chuckles.

"Jongin. You really haven't learned how to tell a joke yet?" A screw in his hand clatters to the ground and he curses quietly. "Glad you found it, though," he calls from the floor.

"Almost thought you'd given me the wrong address," Jongin admits, hip-checking the door. It closes with a metallic screech that echoes in the empty warehouse. "But then I realized—this kind of fits for you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Taemin pops back into view, chuckling. "The price was right."

"Out of the way. In the middle of nowhere, so you don't have neighbors calling the cops on you for suspicious activity."

"Funny you'd immediately jump to those conclusions. You make me sound so shifty. I was interested in a lot of space—"

" _Space_? You don't have anything to put in it!" Jongin splutters.

"I have a mattress," Taemin retorts.

"A thousand square feet. To sleep in." Jongin laughs. The sound echoes in the empty stretch. "You're an idiot."

"I'm just a restless sleeper." The screwdriver in his hand makes a heavy thunking noise against the workbench as he sets it down. "It's—uh—it's the only one I have. I figured—you'd be okay with that."

Jongin's not sure that he _is_ , to be perfectly honest, but he's fucking exhausted and his body hurts and he just wants to catch some sleep. He shrugs. "Works for me. Can I—"

"Yeah, go ahead. I'm in the middle of something."

Jongin splashes some water on his face in the bathroom and looks at himself in the mirror. He squints critically at the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes—when the fuck did he become old enough for _those_ —and decides he's really got to do something about this fucking hair. Jongdae—

He still hasn't gotten in touch with Jongdae.

"I should probably go to headquarters tomorrow," Jongin announces when he finally emerges. Taemin's sitting on the edge of the mattress, bare feet pushed out in front of him. He waves a thin piece of wood in Jongin's direction and gestures for him to sit down next to him. "I wasn't on a secure line, maybe something's up—" Jongin's knees crack loudly as he lowers his body to the floor.

"You think that's a good idea?" Taemin asks. "You're a wanted man, technically." He pulls Jongin's wrist into his lap and inspects it, fingers pushing against the joint until Jongin whimpers and sinks his teeth into his lower lip to stifle the sound. The wood is smooth against his skin but it hurts all the same when Taemin follows it with an elastic bandage and then a generous strip of duct tape.

"I'm a dead man," Jongin reminds him. He flexes his fingers. The motion's slow, labored—but the makeshift splint will probably do the trick. It's better than he's had in the past, at least. "People won't be expecting me to walk in the front door."

Taemin makes a noise in the back of his throat. "Still. Why would you want to go back?"

"They're wrong. It's a mistake. They've got to correct it. Jongdae's got to be going out of his _mind_ trying to figure out what's going on." Jongin offers him an approximation of a smile. He's so tired that his face only manages to hold the expression for a few seconds before it fades away. Taemin doesn't return it.

"Yeah." He stands. "Maybe." He puts a hand on Jongin's shoulder. "Get some sleep, okay?"

☠☠☠

**Thailand, 2022.**

Taemin's enthusiastic about the shipment Jongin shows him. He should be—Jongin'd insisted on crates of the real thing, none of this prop bullshit. _"He's an expert,"_ Jongin argued when Jongdae looked hesitant about sending Jongin out into the Golden Triangle with a real shipment of American battle rifles. _"We can't insult him. He'll know something's up right away."_ The Mark 14's gleam, barrels catching the rays of late afternoon sun when Taemin pries open the first crate and stares at them like he's just fallen in love for the first time. He ghosts his hands across the grip reverently.

"They're beautiful." He looks at Jongin, a crafty smile stretching his mouth wide. "You sure these have to go to Gwangju? You can't be persuaded to lose the shipment?"

Jongin laughs. Taemin's irrepressible, behaves like a child in the biggest department store at Christmastime when he's faced with shiny new toys. He wants it all and he wants it now. "Sorry. Already paid for."

"I can pay more," Taemin wheedles. "Name your price."

"I'm sure you can. Maybe next time," Jongin says smoothly, replacing the lid on the crate. The guns wink goodbye to a forlorn Taemin.

"Pity," he says wistfully. "I've always wanted a Mark 14. Just to have."

"Well, if anything else falls off the truck, I'll give you a call."

Taemin watches him for a moment, sizing him up. Jongin sees something in his eyes, steels himself for an argument that doesn't come. Instead, Taemin nods and turns away.

"I'll make the arrangements. You won't mind sticking around camp for a few days?"

Everything inside Jongin heaves a sigh of relief. Almost home free. "That's fine." He needs to report back to Jongdae as soon as possible, give him the coordinates of the drop-off point so someone can be waiting in Chiang Saen to catch the boat before it leaves for Gwangju. Gives him enough time to figure something out if the deal gets delayed or goes south.

"Good. Come with me," Taemin commands. He snaps his fingers at one of his henchmen who produces some modified Baretta-type gun from only-God-knows-where. After a few moments of inspection he nods and looks at Jongin. "Perimeter check. Need some company." Jongin falls in step with Taemin as he kicks his way through the underbrush.

"You don't have people to do this for you?" he asks, painfully aware he's being taken away from the camp, away from people. Away from witnesses. He's in danger of being shot and dumped behind a tree. Nobody'd ever find the body.

He thinks about something he saw in the file: Kim Jiwon, some low-level thug suspected in a trafficking case the NIS was building against _Ssang Yong Pa_. A little fish, insignificant in the grand scheme of things. He'd agreed to testify but slipped away after an apparent change of heart, a resurgence of loyalty. They found him stuffed in a garbage can the week after Chuseok, a six-inch exit wound from a point-blank gunshot to the neck. Dozens of witnesses remember some cherubic little darling in an oversized parka flitting around, nose red from the cold. He'd asked for change for the subway and a bystander had given it to him, didn't even realize they'd just aided the hit man in his flight from the scene.

He'd done his job. He'd gotten away. Even as a teenager he was very, very good at walking away from a kill without flinching. It's why he'd scaled up the ranks so quickly. Lee Taemin'd been trained well. A perfect killing machine.

Taemin's mind doesn't seem to be on murder, though. Not yet. He tilts his head to listen and, hearing nothing, steps forward to continue. "I do. But sometimes it's better to do things yourself. You know. If you want to be really sure."

Jongin nods. "Usually my policy. I prefer to work alone."

"Alone's great, but not always practical." Taemin thwacks the butt of the rifle against a creeping vine pulled taut across the space between two trees. It falls to the ground and he kicks it aside to clear a path.

Jongin wonders for a moment if that means Taemin's lonely, but he shakes his head to clear that thought away. There's no way. Probably doesn't even know the meaning of the word.

"So. Seoul," Taemin begins.

"Hmm?"

"You said you're from Seoul."

There's a test coming. Jongin can feel it. He nods slowly. "Yeah. Grew up there."

"Where?"

Jongin counts to three in his head. He doesn't want to answer too quickly, seem to eager to volunteer the information. "We moved around a lot," he says evasively. "Chang-dong, I guess. That's the neighborhood I remember the most."

Taemin's laugh bursts forth suddenly, scaring a few birds in the canopy of trees above them. Even Jongin's a little disconcerted by the sound.

"What?" he asks warily, trying to gauge whether or not he'd be able to wrestle the gun from Taemin without getting shot. You know. Just in case things went downhill in a hurry.

Not that it's necessary. Taemin's apparently tickled at the revelation. "We grew up in the same district. It's funny!" He claps Jongin on the back with his free hand. "Probably even ran into each other at the arcade a few times without even knowing it, but we're meeting each other for the first time in the middle of the jungle?" He sighs, almost like he's content. "Life's weird."

"Yeah. Weird," Jongin echoes, shuffling a few steps back. "Like I said, we moved around a lot, though."

Taemin nods. "Me too, I guess. I mean. There was my family back at home and then there was… well," he gestures back towards the encampment, "the family that chose me."

"Do you miss them?" Jongin asks warily. "Your real family, I mean."

Taemin looks at him quizzically, eyes hard. "Should I?" He takes a step towards Jongin, who stumbles backwards trying to preserve the distance between them. "Do you?"

"I don't know. I guess not," Jongin says, voice weakening. Taemin studies his face for a moment longer.

"So. Back in Chang-dong. Who did you run with?"

Jongin pauses, wipes a trickle of sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. "Run with?"

"You had a crew, right?"

Jongin thinks of Jongdae and Baekhyun back at headquarters. Of Chanyeol, probably elbow-to-elbow with Kyungsoo behind the bar at this very moment. They were a crew of sorts, he supposed. "Some neighborhood kids, I guess." He tugs at the buttoned collar at his throat and pops it open. The fresh air is a relief. "I wouldn't call it a crew. Nothing organized, just sort of. Did whatever we wanted."

"Self-made," Taemin observes idly. "How'd you end up in Afghanistan?"

"Not like there was much for me back in the neighborhood."

That seems to resonate with Taemin. He nods slowly. "And guns?"

"I like them."

Taemin smiles. "Me too."

They step out into a small round clearing. There's an old fire pit at the far end, dusty with ashes, a dozen empty beer bottles lined up on the trunk of a fallen tree, like the drinkers had been keeping track of how many they'd finished. The impression of at least a dozen pairs of boots in the mud, tracking past where they stood and back into the jungle. Taemin puts a hand out to stop Jongin from walking past. He holds a finger up to his lips and crouches, caressing the ground with his fingers.

"Ground's still wet."

Jongin looks around. The leaves flutter with a slow, balmy breeze, but that's about it. The jungle's still. "Who is it?" he asks after a moment.

"I don't know." Taemin stands abruptly, barrel of the gun wedged against Jongin's ribcage. "You tell me. Were you followed? Who are you?"

Jongin swallows and wraps his hand around the barrel of the gun. "Swear to God, Mungkorn, if you don't get that fucking gun out of my—"

Taemin presses a little harder. "You show up out of nowhere and now there's a camp—"

"Look at my boots," Jongin says calmly. "The tracks don't match. Those don't belong to me. I'm working alone."

"Prove it."

"You tell me what to do and I'll do it." Jongin blinks slowly. "Why would I want to fuck up this business deal? I'm just looking to get paid, I don't give a fuck what you do out here."

Taemin considers this. "Don't move."

Jongin closes his eyes for a beat when Taemin crouches and yanks at the laces on Jongin's boots. He lifts his knee obediently, lets Taemin inspect the tread on his soles for a moment before he's satisfied.

"Still," he says, getting to his feet. "Doesn't mean these aren't your guys."

"If I had a team, why would I need you to get my stuff into Gwangju?"

Taemin ignores the question to frisk him, hands smoothing along the inside of his thighs, the waist of his jeans, the small of his back. Jongin raises his arms to allow Taemin better access.

"I'm not armed," Jongin says after a moment. "But if you want to keep touching me, I've got a knot in my back that you can help me out with—"

Taemin laughs at Jongin's boldness and steps back, eyes twinkling. He seems mollified—at least, for the moment. "You're fucking crazy." Taemin sounds delighted. "What if I'd shot you?"

"Guess you'd get to keep your Mark 14s after all, then, wouldn't you?"

"Now you tell me," Taemin jokes, waving the gun in Jongin's direction again. "I can still shoot you anytime, you know."

"I know. I don't think you will, though." Jongin sincerely hopes that Jedi mind tricks work with twenty-nine-year-old Korean gangsters.

"We'll see." He thrusts the gun back in Jongin's face. "Here. Take this."

Jongin looks at him curiously. "Are you kidding? What makes you think I won't shoot you?"

"I don't think you will," Taemin mimics. "Come on, _Kai_. Just take it. Shoot," he says, gesturing at the row of beer bottles lined up on the fallen tree. "I wanna see what you can do." Jongin looks down at Taemin's face, sees the grim line of his mouth and realizes this might be part of the test, too.

The gun's heavy in Jongin's hands. He takes a deep breath and aims, lines up the barrel with the hips of the beer bottle and pulls the trigger. A moment later the bottle explodes, shards of dark glass scattering across the tree stump and onto the jungle floor.

"Nice shot," Taemin says approvingly. "But watch this."

He faces away from the tree stump and tucks the gun under his arm. A deep breath, then another. His eyes close and the tip of his tongue snakes out to wet the dry skin of his lower lip. The slightest twitch of his index finger and the bottle at the end of the row shatters. Then the next one. The next one. The entire row collapses.

"Jesus," Jongin says under his breath, suitably impressed. Taemin beams proudly.

"I've been able to do that since I was twelve. Just takes practice. I can teach you, if you'd like."

Jongin shrugs and buries his hands in his pockets. Beats the alternative, being on the other end of target practice. "Sure."

 

They walk back to camp in uneasy silence, Taemin swinging the gun into low-hanging branches to pull them down and toss them aside. Jongin slaps at his arms a few times in a fruitless attempt to dissuade insects from biting him. They scatter with the breeze of his hand only to return, persistent and hungry, to the bare skin of his arms, his neck. He rolls down his sleeves despite the muggy heat to thwart their efforts and hugs himself.

Taemin pulls one of his associates aside when they reach the row of tents and murmurs to him in Thai, pointing back at the woods. The man nods and calls to a few young boys hunched over the fire, breathing in the smell of charcoal and dinner like they hadn't eaten anything in weeks.

"Don't worry," Taemin assures Jongin. "Whoever's out there—they'll be taken care of." As if on cue, a volley of gunshots ring out beyond the line of trees—a few shouts—then silence. "See?"

Jongin hopes to hell Jongdae hadn't sent anyone to shadow him. "Wow," he says lamely. He catches Taemin watching him for a reaction and waits, face frozen, until Taemin seems satisfied and steps back.

"Told you. Can't always do everything by yourself. You brought accommodations?" Taemin digs the tip of his boot into Jongin's discarded knapsack. Jongin's stomach clenches involuntarily, hoping he doesn't notice the satellite phone he's got buried in the bottom for emergencies. "This mosquito net's for shit. You're going to need a better one than that. They’re always brutal this time of year."

"I know." Jongin rolls up his sleeve to expose a neat line of itchy, red welts at the crook of his elbow. "They were eating me alive on the walk back."

Taemin's expression morphs. He pulls Jongin's arm to his face, mouth set in a grim line. "Shit. Why didn't you tell me?" His eyes flicker to Jongin's face, searching. "You feel alright?"

"It's okay," Jongin assures him, pulling his arm back to his side. He doesn't know what to think about Taemin's unexpected show of concern. He's used to taking care of himself. Nobody's supposed to worry about Kim Jongin—it's easier that way, less complicated. Especially not some gangster he's been sent to eliminate. He feels less sure about this than he did about the gun deal—that's a job. This? He's just hoping Taemin didn't notice the goosebumps trailing up his arm, the weird flush heating his cheeks. "I've been inoculated."

"Still. There's—you know, other things," Taemin says finally. "Lots of weird shit out in the jungle. It's not just malaria out here. Just. Let me know how you're doing." He kicks at the knapsack again. "And sleep in my tent, alright? I've got a good net."

Jongin swallows heavily, manages to nod. His face feels like it's on fire. Taemin reaches out and palms Jongin's neck as he walks past.

☠☠☠

**Seoul, 2023.**

Jongin wakes up drowning in his own sweat—or at least that's what it feels like as he sits up and squints into the darkness. The box fan Taemin's got set up in the open window isn't doing shit for air circulation and the lone sheet they'd been sleeping under is balled up on the floor. Taemin sits cross-legged at the end of the mattress, idly tracing shapes against the knob of Jongin's ankle. Then, very slowly, the characters: kieuk, a, ieung, i. _Kai._

Jongin pulls his foot away.

"What are you doing?" he asks. It comes out gruffer than he'd intended. Taemin pulls his hands back into his lap and shakes his head.

"Heard something."

"Something?"

"Dog," he says shortly, resting his chin on his own shoulder as he cranes his neck to look back at Jongin. The curve of his spine, the curtain of hair, the ripple of musculature under his skin—it's a pretty picture. Jongin's breath catches in his chest.

"Dog? You sure that was it?" He busies himself with the sheet, tugs it back over his lower half. He's not sure why he's bothering with modesty—it's Taemin, after all—but it gives him a moment to collect his thoughts. "It's safe here, right? Nobody knows about this place?"

"Mmm. No." Taemin nods absently. "Just you."

"It's hot as fuck in here," Jongin protests, flopping back against the pillows.

"Always is this time of year." Taemin reaches out, splays his hand across Jongin's abdomen, the pads of his fingertips playing with the thin trail of hair creeping south from his bellybutton to below the sheets. Jongin feels like his skin's melting off and Taemin's body heat isn't helping but he still anchors Taemin's hand to his stomach with his own.

"Come back to bed."

☠☠☠

**Thailand, 2022.**

Later that night, Taemin sits out with him after the others have gone to sleep, fingers walking wet trails through the condensation on his beer bottle. He'd commandeered them from a couple of boys who looked too young to be without their mother, let alone smuggling amber bottles of some shitty lager in the deep pockets of their shorts.

"So, what really brings you out here, Kai?"

Jongin takes a long swig from the neck of his bottle, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "I don't know what you mean," he says finally.

"Plenty of ways to move guns into the country. Why me?" It's an honest question, no menace in the way he asks it.

"You still don't trust me?" Jongin's gotten very good at controlling the panic in his voice. He listens to himself, pleased at how lazy his words are.

"That's not it." Taemin shrugs. "I don't know. Never mind."

Jongin rolls his shoulders, looks at the fire with exaggerated interest as he tries to avoid blowing his cover. "Wanted to deal with an ex-pat. Someone familiar with the seaways into Gwangju."

"Not a lot of guns going in there," Taemin says slowly. "Seems strange you've got a customer that didn't come to me first."

The label comes loose under Jongin's anxious fingernails. Taemin notices and laughs, a soft, huffing chuckle that peters into the rustling of the trees.

"Kai. Relax. I've got more business than I can handle, I'm happy to share the territory. And I don't care where they're going, I don't need to know." He drops his empty bottle to the ground. It thuds hollowly, rolls until it bumps up against Jongin's foot. A pause. Taemin laughs. "You're cute."

Jongin feels a hot flush creeping up his neck, drops his chin to his chest. "Thanks," he mutters.

"You ever think about sticking around this place, I could always use the extra help," Taemin offers. "Won't even make you dig the latrines."

"I'm touched—"

"—you should be—"

"—but," Jongin says, leaning forward onto his elbows, "I've got some obligations back home."

"Fuck that." Taemin punches Jongin in the bicep. "Obligations? To who? You sell weapons. Don't lie and say you've got friends and a family. I'm not new to this game. You can't do both."

 _Tell me about it,_ Jongin thinks. "Yeah," he murmurs, voice resigned. "You're right." Taemin doesn't know a thing about who Jongin is, what he really does—and yet. He understands what Jongin is, how he lives, better than anyone.

"Hey," Taemin says, voice quiet. "I'm serious. You decide you need a change of scenery, you've got a place to stay." Jongin sees the shadow stretch out from Taemin as he rises to his feet, lets his fingers skirt along the shell of Jongin's ear. Jongin doesn't pull away.

 

Before bed, Jongin heads out into the bushes with the satellite phone. "You really going that far to piss?" Taemin calls from the tent, laughing. "You're either hung like a horse or a mosquito. Which is it?"

"Guess you'll have to use your imagination," Jongin retorts, ducking behind a tree. He texts Jongdae the time and place and a brief _all set_. Jongdae replies less than fifteen seconds later: _Good 2 hear from U. Proceed w/ II_. He thinks about Jongdae sitting in the comfort of his air-conditioned office, feet propped up on the edge of his desk. Probably eating some of those disgusting licorice candies he's been so fond of lately. Fucker. Jongin would give his left nut for some climate control right now.

"You lost out there?" Taemin's voice comes through the trees, dangerously close.

"Coming." Jongin zips up his jeans, leaves the phone under a root, secures the hiding place with a rock and hopes he'll be able to get back to it in time before someone else discovers it.

☠☠☠

**Seoul, 2023.**

Taemin's already up and puttering around on his workbench when Jongin drags himself off the mattress and onto the cold cement floor with a groan. He doesn't even look up from what he's doing, just hears Jongin feeling sorry for himself and chuckles.

"Morning, sunshine."

Jongin grunts into his forearm. "I feel like shit."

"Come on, princess. I know you're tougher than that."

Jongin rolls onto his back with some difficulty, ribs aching, and stares up at the ceiling. "Maybe not." He hears the familiar click of a magazine locking back into place and struggles to sit up. "Expecting trouble?"

"Always." Taemin checks the safety before he tucks it into the waistband of his jeans. "You still planning on going into work today?"

"Yes."

"I figured." Taemin looks grim. "It's always hard to talk to you out of things when you've made your mind up."

"You remember." Jongin lets out an embarrassing yelp when he tries to get to his feet. His wrist isn't ready to support the weight of his body and his abdominal muscles are too preoccupied with the broken rib to be of much use. Everything's much stiffer today after a night's rest. " _Fuck._."

Taemin's by his side in a flash, pulling him up by the elbow. "See? You're in no shape to—"

"I'm fine." Jongin steps out of reach and examines Taemin's handiwork from the night before. The splint's held together admirably despite the heat and Jongin's tendency to thrash in his sleep. "Give me five minutes and we'll go."

"I need to run an errand first," Taemin calls after Jongin. Jongin pauses, bare feet stilling against the gritty floor.

"Errand?" He doesn't like the sound of that. He knows what Taemin's errands are like. They usually end in bloodshed and he just _can't_ attract that kind of attention right now. "You really need me along for this?"

"Yes, I do." Taemin leans against the counter, offers Jongin one of those disarming smiles of his. Jongin's stomach flips nervously. "Won't take long, I promise."

 

Five minutes is wishful thinking. Everything takes more time when he's in this much pain, especially when he's trying to hide it from Taemin to avoid being called princess again. It's another twenty before Jongin's ready to go, dressed in spare clothes that Taemin drops unceremoniously in his lap. Ratty jeans, a black t-shirt, a hooded sweatshirt. He pulls the sweatshirt's hood up to obscure his face and tugs the zipper halfway.

"You look like you're ready to rob a bank," Taemin jokes, tossing Jongin a pistol of his own. Jongin catches it with his good hand and tucks it away. "Seriously, it's like thirty-five degrees out today. You're going to get heat stroke."

"I'll manage." He balls his fists into the front pockets of the sweatshirt. "So. What's this errand? Where are we going?"

"You'll see," Taemin drops enigmatically, clambering into the driver's seat of an old battered medical waste transport van. He'd slipped out sometime that morning while Jongin was still asleep to commandeer it from the lot of a nearby clinic. Medical waste vans were his preferred vehicle for a number of reasons. The most important of these took Jongin by surprise: "Nobody's going to die if I borrow it for a few hours," Taemin explains, hands buried under the dashboard to fiddle with the wiring.

"Surprised you take that into consideration," Jongin mumbles. Taemin frowns and opens his mouth, but Jongin's not paying too much attention and barrels on. "Anyway. Borrow? You don't just keep it around full time?"

"Stolen vehicles attract attention when they're just sitting around. If I need to use your car, I'll always return it by the end of the day." He tips his head thoughtfully. "With a full tank of gas, too, if I remember." The engine roars to life and Taemin beams like he's just won a gold medal. He probably would, Jongin thinks as the van putters through the industrial ghost town and onto a side street. If hotwiring were an Olympic sport, of course.

 

They pull up to the curb in front of the clinic and Taemin throws on the hazard lights, leaves it in park as he unbuckles his seatbelt and pushes out onto the street. All at once, Jongin realizes the brilliance of the medical waste truck—nobody's looking twice at the vehicle idling lazily in front of the building. Taemin certainly gets full points for tactical awareness and ingenuity. He'd make a great spy if it weren't for the gun running. It's too late for Taemin, though: he's bumped elbows with far too many demons of the underworld to stand a shot at a legitimate career.

Now that he's thinking about it, it might be too late for Jongin now, too.

Taemin knocks on the window with his knuckles. "You coming in?" he asks through the window. Jongin rolls it down— _hand cranks, Jesus Christ, how old is this thing?_ —and squints. He's not interested in being a party to armed robbery, not when he's already wanted by every government watch agency in the country (and probably a few international organizations, as well).

"For what? Backup?"

"No, dumbass. For a checkup," Taemin scoffs, yanking the door open. He's got this tone he uses on Jongin when he feels something's especially urgent, authoritative and gentle all at once. His voice drops half an octave and settles into it when he says, "I know the doctor here. He's cool. He won't—you know, call the police or the press or anything like that."

The waiting room's empty, save for a few truly uncomfortable chairs and a side table piled high with magazines, stale and crinkled from thousands of anxious hands turning their pages. Taemin abandons him in favor of speaking to the nurse at the front desk, then waves goodbye as Jongin disappears down the hallway.

☠☠☠


	2. 2

☠☠☠

**Thailand, 2022.**

"Jongin. Hey. Jongin."

There's someone shaking him, a voice in his ear that's familiar but he can't quite place. _Jongdae?_ he thinks before he remembers. It takes a moment to register that he's still on assignment somewhere in the jungle, that it's Taemin's hands on his shoulders. He opens his eyes. Taemin's face is looming inches away, framed by starbursts of light that get worse the longer he stares. He closes them again.

"Jongin. Can you hear me?"

He tries to speak. His swollen tongue laves uselessly at the roof of his mouth. The best he can manage is a short whimper through his nose, a brief nod.

"I told you the mosquito bites were no joke."

The cold compress feels like heaven against his forehead. Jongin makes a quiet, appreciative sound, tries to put his hand on Taemin's wrist to thank him but ends up gripping air.

"Stay still." Taemin pushes his arm back by his side. "You've got—well, don't worry about it. You've been out for a few days. I think you're over the worst of it, though."

"What? How long," Jongin attempts. It comes out garbled, practically incoherent. His mouth is sour with old spit and bile. He grimaces at the taste. Taemin cocks his head curiously, dabs the washcloth at the side of Jongin's mouth.

"The shipment went out as planned, if that's what you're worried about."

"Nnn—" _When._ A supportive hand wedges underneath the base of his neck to tip his head forward. Something cool against his lips. A canteen, fresh water. Most of it dribbles right back out and down his face but it helps wash away the sandy feeling in the back of his throat. Taemin's right there, wiping his cheek dry with the broad pad of his thumb. Jongin tries again. "When?"

"Six days ago."

It takes him a beat to do the math. _Fuck._ Jongin's body springs to life, hands flailing blindly as he struggles to sit up. Taemin's too startled to react at first, sits back on his heels and watches Jongin flounder. The weight of the fever behind his eyes and the way the tent spins around him is a little too much a little too soon. He whimpers pitifully, patting at the ground nearby for his bag.

"I—I need to go—"

"Go? The fuck? Go where?" Taemin's muscles finally unlock. "You're not in any state—"

"They're _waiting_ —if they don't hear from me…" He trails off. Fuck. The phone. It's probably been discovered by now. How to slip away when he's—he's still in the leader's fucking tent, there's no way—they don't even know he's been sick, probably think he hasn't been checking in because he's chosen to lie low. He's never going to make it out of here alive.

"Who's waiting?" Taemin asks. He pushes at Jongin's shoulders again. Jongin wilts back onto his mat, strength depleted. Everything aches, every joint—his toes, his knees. His fingers. He's trapped. "Jongin?" Taemin whispers. It hits Jongin with the force of a wrecking ball: Taemin's been calling him Jongin this whole time.

"What did you call me?"

"You—said some things," he says stiffly, "the night you came down with this." Taemin brings the canteen to his mouth again. "I—don't worry. I'm not—I'm not going to hurt you," he assures when Jongin rears away. "Look. You're still really sick. You shouldn't go anywhere right now. I'll—tell me where your friends are. I'll go meet them."

"Not my friends."

"Your team, then," Taemin amends, wringing out the washcloth and pressing it to Jongin's temples. Jongin's eyes pop out of his head. "Relax. I'm—you're okay. I'm not going to blow you in. I figured you weren't working completely alone. Nobody does that. Not even me. Tell me where they're waiting for you."

Jongin shakes his head, vision blurring. "No. They'll—it has to be me."

"And I'm telling you it can't be. You've still got a fever."

Jongin groans into the back of his hand. It breaks into a racking cough that Taemin tries to soothe with more water. Jongin swats him away again. "You should've just shot me. Jesus. I feel awful."

"Where's the fun in that?" Taemin shrugs and takes a long swig, eyes still trained on Jongin's face. He chuckles when Jongin wrinkles his nose. "You're not contagious," he says quietly. "Lucky for you. Although—even if you were, it'd be too late for me anyway. Sleeping in the same quarters, taking care of your dumb ass."

"You didn't have to—"

"Yeah, I did. You could have died." Outside, a bird calls out to a mate in the trees. The response, a moment later—doleful, reluctant, muffled by the sound of the wind as it skirts through the leaves. "Look. I know—you're used to doing things on your own. But sometimes... you can't."

The bird cries again. No response this time.

"Thanks. I guess," Jongin croaks.

"Sure." Taemin sounds indifferent, like it's not a big deal that he's just spent the better part of a week making sure some relative stranger didn't die in his tent. "We come from the same place, right?"

"Y-yeah."

"Then did I really have a choice?"

On the surface, it sounds like sound logic but there's something in Taemin's voice and Jongin knows it's not that simple. Taemin's killed plenty of people. What's one more? He had a choice and he made it. He chose to spare Jongin.

Taemin takes his time settling in on the mat next to Jongin, makes sure the net's secure and the canteen's nestled between them. It's too hot to be this close, but there's this weird grateful magnetism between them—Jongin feels like he's been pulled into Taemin's orbit, a helpless satellite.

"Water's here." Taemin pats the canteen. "Drink it all, I can get more."

Jongin closes his eyes although it doesn't make too much of a difference. It's dark but he still thinks he can see Taemin's face imprinted on the back of his eyelids, peering down at him and smiling. A brush of warmth, a mouth, maybe, against the round of his shoulder. The ghost of a kiss. It's so faint he's barely sure he didn't imagine it, drowsy with heat and the vestiges of the fever he can't shake.

"Taemin."

Jongin opens his eyes. "Hmm?"

"My name. It's not Dragon. It's Taemin."

Jongin knows. Still, he lets the syllables bounce off his tongue—first the _tae_ , saddled heavy over his molars, then _min_ , pushing forward through his lips. He nearly chokes on it.

"Now we're even," Taemin murmurs. "Sleep, Jongin."

Jongin's breath hitches in his throat, chest tight with the magnitude of what's happening. His hand moves of its own accord, slips around Taemin's in the dark and holds it until Taemin's grip weakens and his breathing grows loud, steady.

This—this is the hardest assignment he's ever been on. He's never had anyone to understand—Jongdae, maybe, but Jongdae's never been out in the field like this, never been in danger and alone. There's a reason Baekhyun and Jongdae are back at headquarters. It's comfortable there, safe. Insulated from all of this. His entire life, Jongin's never been comfortable staying still. He's been shit at maintaining friendships, even worse at the few times he's attempted a relationship of any sort—for him, there's just _the job_ , the heady rush of adrenaline after an especially close call, the satisfaction gained from a successful mission. Everything else is superfluous. He can live without it.

He's scared now, because he can see himself getting used to this. To Taemin. It's stupid and terrifying but he sees himself in Taemin, an alternate version, the path he probably would've taken if the military hadn't gotten their hooks in him first. On paper, Taemin's a ruthless killer, but there's more. Jongin realizes he's still just a child soldier, the sole heir groomed to take over an empire. It's all his, now—an entire criminal organization in his hands and all Lee Taemin wants is a companion, someone to play guns with, someone who doesn't look at him as someone to be feared but as an equal. A friend. Jongin wonders if Taemin's ever had one and it occurs to him that he might possibly be the first person who's ever dared to make a joke to Lee Taemin and lived to tell the tale.

Taemin sighs in his sleep, rolls onto his side and slots his knee between Jongin's thighs like it belongs there. In a way, Jongin feels, it does.

☠☠☠

**Seoul, 2023.**

Jongin's relieved when Dr Kim doesn't ask too many questions about his injuries. For one, he can't remember how the fuck he got them in the first place. There's also the problem of confidentiality—even if he could remember, would it matter? Would he be able to tell him anyway? He's pretty sure he wouldn't, not without incurring the wrath of the NIS. He hears the director's voice ringing in his ears even now: _"We've got doctors in-house for that sort of thing. No use involving civilians in our line of work—it's putting them directly in harm's way. The less they know, the better."_

Taemin's waiting for him at the front desk, drumming his fingers on the countertop like he's been waiting for hours. "Oh, look at you," he teases when he sees Jongin's cast. "Going to have the whole class sign it?"

"I hate you," Jongin informs him, voice flat. "I'm going to kill you in your sleep tonight."

Unswayed by Jongin's threat, Taemin fishes a marker from the receptionist's pen caddy and uncaps it to write his name with a flourish across the smooth plaster encasing the heel of Jongin's hand. He moves on to doodling a dragon underneath his name and he's almost finished when the receptionist returns and pushes a piece of paper across the desk. Jongin pulls his arm away from Taemin with a brusque wrench and murmurs his thanks.

Taemin drags him to the pharmacy across the street to fill his prescription. He barely waits until they're back on the street outside to shake a pill into his hand, pushes it without pretense into Jongin's mouth.

"I don't want—" Taemin claps his hand over Jongin's mouth before he can spit anything out, muffling his protests. The medicine's bitter on his tongue. His face crinkles into a disgusted pucker.

"Just fucking swallow," Taemin urges, passing him a warm bottle of water from the center console. Jongin tips half of it down his throat to wash the chalky residue from his mouth. "Good boy."

"I'm not your damn dog," Jongin growls. He wipes his face with the cuff of his sweatshirt.

"Sit," Taemin commands drily, swivels in his seat to face forward again, shifting the van into drive and nosing into the passing traffic stream. Jongin's arm itches under the cast. He settles back in his seat and tries not to think about it.

 

Headquarters are just under an hour away over the Han River in Seocho. Taemin drives like he's not in a hurry, drums his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of whatever's on the radio. Occasionally he'll steal looks at Jongin, mouth slanting across his face, heavy with things he's choosing not to say. Jongin's grateful. He feels the haze of codeine settling over him like a blanket, nerves practically exhaling with relief at the chance to rest and ignore the damage he'd sustained.

"Was fine without anything," he murmurs sleepily. The headrest is the only thing keeping him from slumping across the console onto Taemin's shoulder. Taemin takes his eyes off the road just long enough to aim a sharp-knuckled punch into the muscle of Jongin's thigh.

"Hey. Wake up."

"I'm awake," Jongin whimpers. It sounds more like a plea for _five more minutes._

"How many fingers am I holding up, then?"

Jongin peers through bleary eyes. Taemin's throwing him the bird. "Fuck you too."

"Good job." Taemin's fingers are hesitant when they push the hair from Jongin's forehead, almost like he's asking for permission. They'd met when they were both pretending to be someone else. This—this is all unexplored territory, no longer actors playing a role in which they'd been cast. Taemin breaks the moment: "You look fucking ridiculous, by the way. Is this what all the spies are wearing this season?"

Blinking takes forever, like his eyelids are resisting the idea. Jongin sits up and scrubs his palms across his face. "It was part of my cover."

"No wonder you got your ass kicked."

"I'll fix it."

They're double-parked in the traffic circle outside headquarters by now, blinker clicking a hemiola against the pop song whispering its way through the speakers. "We're here," Taemin announces like Jongin hasn't noticed.

Still, he doesn't move just yet. "You can just drop me here," he says. "I'll get back by myself alright. There's a bus line runs right down the street. Stops at the corner."

"I don't think it's a good idea to go inside without backup," Taemin says primly. A car honks and pulls around him. Jongin catches a glimpse of an angry fist shaking through the side window as it zooms by. "Plus," Taemin continues, "you haven't been to my place during the daylight. You'll never find it."

Jongin scoffs. "Please, Taemin. I grew up in this city."

"Let me come in with you."

"No." Jongin can be just as firm when the occasion calls for it. "You think walking into the headquarters of the National Intelligence Service with a known arms trafficker is a good idea?" He unbuckles his seatbelt. "Just go home. I'll see you later, okay?"

Taemin studies him. "You'll come back?"

"Don't have anywhere else to go," Jongin says, pushing out the door. 

It's mostly true. He'd abandoned the idea of renting an apartment in the city years ago when he realized he was spending a third of his paycheck on a room he only slept in a few months out of the year, if that. He rented a storage locker and crashed with somebody when he wasn't on an assignment. He preferred Chanyeol's place—the couch had a permanent indentation in the middle cushion from Chanyeol's ass that cradled Jongin better than any expensive memory foam mattress ever could. If Chanyeol was busy, he'd go to Baekhyun's, who always kept clean sheets on the bed in the spare room, just in case. Last resort was Jongdae, if only because they saw enough of each other at work and didn't necessarily care to spend time together on their down time as well. He'd been planning on going to Chanyeol's after the Colombia assignment, but he's thinking about Chanyeol's safety now and doesn't want to risk dragging him into this any further. He'd rather not put Taemin in harm's way, either, but at least Taemin's armed and knows how to take care of himself.

"Well, give them my regards," Taemin cracks. "I'll see you later."

"Fine. Later." Jongin watches the van weave through traffic, indicator light blinking goodbye as it disappears around the bend.

☠☠☠

**Thailand, 2022.**

Taemin actually cooks for Jongin when he's well enough to sit up on his own—just some stew thing, but Jongin's ravenous and keeps inching closer to the fire to inhale the steam wafting from the soup pot. Jongin's two weeks out from meeting his local contact at the rendezvous point and there's still no sign of anyone. Nobody seems concerned that he hasn't checked in. Some days he's okay, tags along on Taemin's patrols and even keeps up with Taemin's loping stride, but others he's tired down to the bone just from the effort of holding himself upright. Taemin tells him not to rush it, that every little bit is progress and he shouldn't take it for granted because _"it could be worse, you could be dead."_ His strength is returning slowly, but every day that passes is another missed opportunity to slip away before they come to get him, before they make sure he's done the job. They'll kill Taemin for him if he doesn't figure out an alternative way around this—and soon.

He watches Taemin crouch over the flame to retrieve a piece of bread he'd left to toast in the skillet. He uses it to sop up the rest of the broth on his plate. Jongin's still not ready for bread yet, not even soft bread—he'd tried yesterday and choked most of it back up into Taemin's outstretched hands.

"This team of yours," Taemin says casually, mouth full. "They haven't come looking for you."

"No," Jongin admits stiffly, letting his spoon come to rest against the edge of his soup bowl. "They haven't." He doesn't add it's because he's still got two weeks to put a bullet in Taemin and get the hell out of there. He doesn't like to dwell on that part too much.

"I was just thinking about it. If they think you're dead... maybe this is your chance. To start over." Taemin chews thoughtfully and holds the spoon up to Jongin's mouth with his other hand. "I could always use someone with your skills around here."

Jongin's lips close around the bowl of the spoon. The broth is hot, oversalted; Taemin's palate seems to be dead with the way he over-seasons everything, but it tastes _good_ to Jongin, better than anything he's ever had in his life, especially after going so long without keeping anything down. Swallowing hurts, though—he winces as it goes down. Taemin scrapes the bottom of the bowl and his hand's back again, gaze unwavering.

"Last one. Come on."

Jongin opens his mouth obediently and leans in. He wants to finish it—wants to get better, knows he's going to need his strength if he's got any hope of getting out of here. "Use me how?" he asks after a moment.

"Expanding into the Japanese market." The spoon clatters in the empty bowl. Taemin looks pleased and pushes aside the dinnerware to be taken care of later. "I've made a few Yakuza contacts. Need somebody to run point for me. Given your contacts and your background, I think you'd be a good fit."

"You don't know anything about me."

"I know you're good at getting your hands on product." Taemin offers him an old rag to wipe his mouth. "Call it a sixth sense. I just know you'd be a pro."

Jongin cringes and hides his mouth behind the rag. This lie—he doesn't have a legitimate supplier, just access to the NIS warehouse, and it's doubtful he'd be able to tap that resource more than once before being charged with treason.

He shakes his head. _You're not seriously entertaining this. Get it together._

"What—what's wrong?" Taemin asks. Jongin looks up.

"Nothing. Let me think about it, yeah? I don't—really work with people."

"You've got a team," Taemin points out. "What's the difference?"

"I've—it's just different."

Taemin does a poor job at hiding the disappointment in his face, especially for someone who's got a reputation for being a ruthless hard-ass, but to his credit, he doesn't push Jongin for an explanation.

"Get some rest, okay?" He stands. "I've got some stuff to take care of. I'll be back before dark."

Jongin sighs. "Taemin—"

"Don't—not—not out in the open," Taemin warns. His expression hardens. "Just—us. Okay?"

"Okay. Sorry."

"Don't be sorry." Jongin thinks he sees the faintest hint of affection—not on his mouth, but in the glint of his eyes. "Sleep now."

Jongin's heart clenches in his chest. _Don't,_ his brain warns him.

☠☠☠

**Seoul, 2023.**

Jongin's never actually been inside the security offices on the first floor before. He's been working here for eight years, knows the faces (if not the names) of every single guard on duty at the door. He's used to the routine: wait in line, surrender any firearms and devices with recording capabilities, swipe your ID card, sign in and you're home free. This is usually enough for the pencil pushers, the kids hired right out of college to make pro-democracy comments on the websites of various news outlets. The security measures increase with the floor numbers. Jongdae's office is on the sixth floor—fingerprint scans—and beyond that, getting on the elevator to the director's office requires an additional retina scan before it'll even let the button engage. Any breach and the entire facility snaps into a full lockdown until the security team double- and triple-checks every person on the property.

The NIS building's laid out like a bisected wagon wheel, office buildings branching off the main arch like spokes. He's usually on business in building one, which houses most of the international intelligence agents. Jongdae likes to call it 007 Wing because he's had a Bond fantasy ever since he was thirteen years old, but everyone else just calls it the mausoleum because it's usually fucking _dead_. Handlers like Jongdae and independent tech operatives like Baekhyun are in most of the time, but the field agents come and go, schedules dictated by their assignments instead of some 9-5 timecard bullshit. Jongin loves this about his job, loves the unpredictability, the freedom from neckties and alarm clocks. Most days he's just biding his time, blending in with the scenery. Observe, report. Interact if necessary. He laughs at the new recruits who come in expecting some _Bourne_ situation. Truth? Most days, being a spy's mostly about waiting and acclimating to the local cuisine.

That's on the job, though. He's not blending in at all right now. He squints up at the beady lens of the camera in the corner of the interrogation room, wondering who's sitting behind the monitor watching him sweat. The guard that'd halted him at the ID scanner comes back in—Seunghyun, Jongin thinks, hoping he's remembered correctly—and shuts the door.

Jongin tries a proactive tack. "Seunghyun, I'm here to clear up a misunderstanding. I'm sure you've seen the news. I need to speak to my handler Kim Jongdae—I tried to get in touch but couldn't get to a secure line. I don't know what happened, but they've got the wrong guy. I'd _never_ —you know. Do what they're saying I did."

Seunghyun narrows his eyes but says nothing. 

Jongin sits there for another twenty minutes in stony silence, watching Seunghyun's dark eyes flicker to his cast, his face, the wall, then back to the paper in front of him. This is not good. Jongin recognizes that letterhead, sees a pixellated copy of the headshot from his personnel file paperclipped to the memo. This is serious—there's been an order issued specifically relating to his detainment. If this whole thing is a mistake, it's gone deeper than a botched mission, a blown cover in front of the entire world. This isn't an intern pressing the wrong button somewhere—there's something going on at headquarters and like it or not, Jongin's been volunteered to be the face of everything that ails the NIS.

The door opens. "Oh, my God. Jongin."

Seunghyun stands to block Soojung's arrival but she bulldozes straight past him to Jongin's side. "I just heard you were here—what happened? Why did you—"

"You're not supposed to be in here," Seunghyun barks. Soojung turns on him, eyes blazing.

"I report to the director, not you." She turns back to Jongin. "When you called, I didn't—I didn't know where you were calling from, I didn't—I'm sorry," she says. "I didn't want to."

"I know," Jongin mutters, ducking away from her hands. They follow his face, cupped around his cheeks, thumbs stroking the line of his jaw. "Stop—it's okay, I'm okay," he insists the minute she notices the cast on his arm.

"What did you do?" she whispers. "Jongin, this is—Jongdae's been in the director's office all day, and I don't know if he's going to be fired over this or _what_."

"This?"

Soojung swallows. "The Colombia job. You."

Jongin grabs at her hand. It's cold, palms clammy with fear. He notices for the first time the trembling in her lower lip, the flyaways in the normally-neat braid she always wears slung over her left shoulder. She's probably been up for days, ever since he dropped off the radar. She's barely keeping it together. "Soojung," he whispers. "What's going on?"

She ignores him to look up at Seunghyun. "They're ready for him upstairs." Seunghyun purses his lips. She gestures at the intercom in his sleeve. "Go on. Check if you don't believe me."

As if on cue, the speaker crackles to life. Seunghyun listens for a moment, mutters confirmation. "Alright," he says gruffly. "Jongin. I need to escort you to the director's office."

Soojung's been with the company almost as long as Jongin. He remembers her first day vividly—skinny, knock-kneed, wide eyes and a beautiful face. She didn't look a day over sixteen. He'd made a remark to this effect and received a twisted wrist for his trouble. And so it began. Soojung's best weapon was her disarming smile, her ability to assess any situation and act swiftly to protect the members of Jongdae's team. _She'd make one hell of an agent,_ Jongdae'd said to Jongin one day, _but I'm glad she's not interested in getting out from behind the desk. I'd tear my hair out worrying about all the trouble she'd cause._

There are benefits to working with the same people for so many years. For instance, when Soojung flips her braid over to her right shoulder and fiddles with her earring, Jongin snaps to attention. It's a sign. They've used this one before, when the assistant director's made a personal visit to Jongdae's office for the express purpose of chewing him out. Soojung purposefully tugs at the lobe of her ear under the pretense of fixing the back of her earring and Jongin knows to turn around in the doorway and come back later.

She's doing it now, eyes trained on Jongin. _Run,_ her expression says. _There'll be trouble if you stay. Run fast._ He blinks twice in rapid succession and hopes she catches that he means _okay_.

Her hand drops. She got the message.

Jongin's known as one of headquarters' most obedient assets. He hates the way he's described, doesn't care for the descriptor that paints a picture of Kim Jongin, puppy dog. But it's true—he does as he's told, doesn't ask questions that don't pertain to his task at hand. And no matter what, the job always gets done.

Seunghyun knows this. He's been studying Jongin's file for the better part of an hour with the fastidious attention of a student with an exam on the horizon. Jongin wonders how much he's seen—there's no way someone at Seunghyun's pay grade has the level of clearance he'd need to read about North Korea and Afghanistan. It's probably the manufactured one, the one that details his _peacekeeping missions_ in parts of the Middle East like he's some fucking genius mediator. Seunghyun can't hide the contempt from showing on his face. Jongin recognizes the type—some aspiring agent who never quite managed to clear the hurdles that stood between being a Salaried Government Employee and becoming an _asset_. Probably thinks Jongin's training has been a waste.

Jongin sees an out: the bathroom at the end of the hall. He clutches his hands over the crotch of his trousers like he's about to split in two and moans. "Seunghyun—hold on—I need to use the bathroom first. Please."

Seunghyun shakes his head curtly. "Orders were to bring you straight upstairs."

"C'mon," Jongin cajoles, eyes fixated on Seunghyun's and pleading. "You know how long-winded the director is. I'm gonna piss myself waiting for him to get to the point."

"Not my problem."

"I know you have to escort me. I'm not asking you to wait outside—just come in with me. Thirty seconds. That's all I'm asking." He lowers his voice. "Help me out, please."

It's the longest minute of Jongin's life waiting for Seunghyun to come to a decision. "Fine. Thirty seconds and I'm dragging you out of there—I don't care if you've finished or not."

And that's it: in that moment, Jongin knows why Seunghyun never made it as an agent. Seunghyun doesn't consider the tactical possibilities of a bathroom, doesn't understand that Jongin doesn't need a weapon, just a well-placed hand at the back of Seunghyun's head. One swift push towards the mirror and a sickening crack rings out in the tiled room, a shower of glass shards cascade onto the floor. An unconscious Seunghyun slumps to the floor with a dull thud. The gash on his cheek is already wet with fresh blood. Jongin debates kicking him in the ribs for good measure but decides he's done enough damage—if Seunghyun weren't technically one of the good guys, this'd be about the time to put two bullets in the back of his head and get the fuck out of there.

Besides, there's no way a noise that loud went unheard, especially on the first floor of this building.

He takes off at a dead sprint, past a startled Soojung who's already backing away towards the lobby like she's fleeing the scene of a crime (which, he supposes, she is). The alarms start just as he rounds the corner to the back hallway—he knows he's got _seconds_ to get out before he's trapped and the building goes into full lockdown. He pushes harder, stride extending, arms outstretched to burst through the emergency exit and onto the sidewalk. The ruckus outside is just as shrill, maybe worse—the piercing whine of bells volleying off every concrete surface.

He calculates his odds of getting off the property before a security guard stops him. Not good, all things considered—they're located on a plot of land large enough to leave him winded if he sprints the length of it. His best shot is getting to the road. Civilians, tons of them—a backdrop in which to blend, a chance to rest. The adrenaline's doing wonders for overriding the drowsy codeine buzz he's been working with but he can already feel that the crash later is going to be what kills him. _Fuck you, Taemin. This is why I work alone,_ he thinks bitterly.

A horn honks at him as he's crossing the parking lot. He doesn't look, doesn't want to know who the fuck it is and prefers not to speculate on which particular government-issued firearm they're currently training on him. The muscles in his thighs burn when he pushes to run faster.

It honks again. This time, a familiar voice follows it. "Jongin. _Jongin._ Get in the goddamn van."

Jongin looks across just in time to see Taemin hanging across the van's front seat, pushing the passenger side door open with his fingertips. He doesn't have enough time to contemplate how Taemin's managing to drive in a straight line when he's looking right at Jongin, beckoning.

So he runs.

It hurts more than he's expecting it to when he dives headfirst into the moving van. It doesn't help that he clubs his broken wrist on the console, sending shockwaves of electric pain vibrating down the length of his arm. He struggles for an agonizing second to pull himself upright and slam the door closed behind him, chest expanding and contracting like a pair of bellows from the exertion. 

"You came back," he says through the heaving.

Taemin spins the wheel with his palm and barrels across the lawn between two trees. "I never left, idiot. I went around the traffic circle." He steals a glance out of the corner of his eye mid-maneuver. "You sure you're a spy? You're not just some weird dude who's seen too many movies and just _thinks_ he's a spy? Because you're really bad at this." He tosses Jongin a rag. "Here. Wipe your fingerprints. I'm going to dump this as soon as I can find a parking garage."

☠☠☠

**Thailand, 2022.**

Taemin takes Jongin out with him when Jongin's starting to feel better. "Get some exercise," he says, hauling him to his feet and out the flap. "Fresh air. The tent's disgusting, no thanks to you."

Jongin wanders along beside Taemin like he knows where they're going, appreciates that Taemin doesn't hurry him along when he stops to take a break against a tree. He doesn't even mind when Taemin loops an exasperated arm around his waist to pull him over the uneven terrain at the southeast end of the territory. It's still a surprise every morning he wakes up next to Taemin's curled form and realizes he hasn't been shot dead in the middle of the night by a frustrated leader who just wants to get some sleep. Being this sick's a liability—he'd be useless if there was a raid, hasn't been this out of shape _ever_ , and now he's winded just walking the circuit around camp.

Taemin seems to be enjoying the company, at least. He chatters away at Jongin, barely pausing for Jongin to get a word in before he's on to the next topic. The old neighborhood—the subway—some food cart near his elementary school that always had the best fish cakes, does Jongin remember it? He fires off memories as they surface, each related by a spiderweb of backstories he seems intent on concealing from Jongin (if only he knew—Jongin's read the entire NIS-approved biography of Lee Taemin and knows there wasn't ever an elementary school, that the subway was one of the places Taemin used to pick his marks). He lets Taemin reminisce about the world he's constructed in his head, though. He's sure it's the childhood Taemin would have preferred to have lived through. The way Taemin tells it, it sounds like a good one. Almost like Jongin's.

One day Taemin takes Jongin off their usual path and all the way to a stream. He settles on the riverbank and pulls his shoes and socks off, tosses them under a bush. "Come here," he gestures. "It's too hot to walk back like this."

"Am I going to get bitten again?" Jongin asks cautiously, eyeing the river. "I don't know if I can deal with another bout of anything."

Taemin snorts. "Please. Like you were even conscious for most of it. I should be the one worried about keeping you healthy. You think I like it when someone pukes all over my stuff?"

Jongin flushes. "Sorry."

"Whatever. It's over. Sit." Taemin scoots over on the mossy rock just enough for Jongin to fit. "Don't take your shoes off if you don't want to, but you're missing out. This feels great." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Come on, live a little." He cups his hand into the water and flicks it in Jongin's direction. Jongin steps out of the way just in time.

"I think I've lived enough." Jongin laughs, squatting on the rock next to Taemin.

"Oh really?" Taemin spreads his hand across Jongin's back and gives him a half-hearted shove like he's going to push him face-first into the river. Jongin flails and rears back, collapsing in Taemin's lap.

"You—fucker," he pants. Taemin beams up at him but doesn't make the slightest move towards dislodging Jongin from his chest.

"What? Can't swim?" he asks innocently. 

Jongin lets his full weight balance on Taemin a little more just to hear him grunt and struggle for his next breath. "I can swim just fine. What, are you trying to get me sick again?" He narrows his eyes. "You like playing doctor, don't you? Are you that desperate for company?"

"Maybe I am," Taemin shoots back. Jongin goes quiet.

"I'm sorry," he says after a beat. "I didn't mean it like that. I'm sure you've got plenty of friends, I just meant—"

Taemin's mouth crashes into Jongin's, swallowing the rest of Jongin's sentence. Jongin rears back, eyes wide.

"I—"

"Good," Taemin says, head turned. He's unable—or maybe just unwilling—to meet Jongin's incredulous stare. "I thought you'd never stop talking."

Jongin gets to his feet and brushes the moss from his knees. His hands are trembling. He's in too deep—he's in too deep because all he can think is that if Taemin gets that close to him he will never go home again. "I'm—going to head back to camp," he says slowly. "You coming?"

"Nah. I'm—you go," Taemin mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. Jongin's almost through the first row of trees when Taemin calls out: "Wait. No. Come back—just. Stay."

"Stay?" Jongin hasn't ever heard Taemin ask him for a thing before, didn't even think he knew how. "Why?"

Taemin still won't look at Jongin. "Don't think you should be walking by yourself," he stammers finally. "Wait for me." It's a threadbare excuse—Jongin's gotten strong enough to make the walk back to camp himself, and the trail's easy enough to follow. _He's embarrassed_ , Jongin realizes.

Jongin lowers himself down on the bank of the river a full meter away from Taemin, clasping his wrists around his knees. Taemin slides over, leaves enough space for breathing between the two of them, and just sits, gazing out over the water.

 

A new shipment gets delivered to the camp a few days later. They still haven't talked about the incident at the river but Taemin's started making his perimeter checks alone again, leaves Jongin at camp to amuse himself for hours on end, chatting with the young boys who seem insatiably curious about _Mungkorn's_ visitor. He indulges them, teaches them how to disassemble and reassemble a gun in thirty seconds and wonders if he's going straight to hell for arming the next generation of the mob with skills he learned in basic training.

Mostly, though, he just watches the tree line waiting for Taemin to return. It feels stupid to admit, even just to himself, but he misses Taemin when he's gone. Taemin's the only familiar face, the only one here who speaks his language. He isn't sure whether he should laugh or cry—Taemin's a dangerous criminal and Jongin's—well. He's a state-sanctioned criminal. He's realizing that there's not a lot of difference between his line of work and Taemin's, just the source of the paycheck at the end of the job. Now that Jongin can run the length of a field without collapsing breathless, there's nothing really keeping him here—nothing, that is, except he's still grappling with the second half of his mission. The entire reason why he's even here in the first place.

He's given up on trying to figure out what day it is—he doesn't even think Taemin's got a clue, although he asks as often as he can without raising suspicion. He thinks bitterly about the poor timing of his illness, about the rains that had followed while he was still convalescing, about the soggy, bricked satellite phone he'd retrieved from its hiding place when he'd finally had a moment to escape the tent and look for it. There's no way to get in touch with Jongdae to say he's been sick, that he doesn't want to kill Lee Taemin anymore, that he just wants to go home and forget about the jungle and the stupid tent because Taemin's just a kid, really, just going through the motions because it's all he knows how to do.

There are times, though, where Jongin wonders—when he's listening to those fabricated stories of a _normal_ childhood and thinks that maybe Taemin just deserves a second chance, that he'd do well if he got out of this cycle and started working for himself.

Taemin comes back from his walk just in time for for the delivery, rubbing his hands together with this odd twinkle in his eyes. Jongin's sweating just sitting there, watching Taemin unpack the crate meticulously to check the shipment before he passes it on to its final destination—somewhere in Vietnam, he thinks, from the snippets of Thai he's able to make out. Taemin shoos his underlings away to inspect the guns without being disturbed.

"What do you think?" Taemin asks after a moment. Jongin looks up from where he's propped up against a tree, startled.

"Hmm? What, me?" It's the first time Taemin's directly spoken to him since the river.

Taemin makes a big show of looking first over his left shoulder, then his right. "I don't see anyone else I could possibly be talking to."

"Why me?"

"You like guns."

"Yeah," Jongin says slowly.

"Well." Taemin crooks his index finger. "Come here and tell me how you like these."

 

Jongin realizes it's these little gestures from Taemin—asking his opinion on the shipment, the way he invites Jongin out on the last perimeter check again before he settles down for the evening—he's trying, in his own way, to reach out. To negotiate the next step. He doesn't know anything but the job, but munitions and strategy. The proper way to shoot a beer bottle, and then, using the transitive property, a person. It's all he's ever had, all he's ever learned how to do. He never even had a chance at anything else.

"You ever think…" Jongin starts slowly, surprised at the sound of his own voice cutting over creaking sound of the jungle around them. It's late. They've been in the tent for at least an hour but Jongin can't sleep while he's still thinking about this. Taemin rolls over and sighs, kicks the blanket off.

"What? What's wrong?" he grunts. Jongin shakes his head.

"Never mind. Sorry."

"I'm awake now. What?" Taemin's arm drapes heavily over Jongin's waist, pulling him closer. "You sick again?"

It seems counterintuitive to Jongin that Taemin's first instinct is to pull him closer but it seems to confirm something he'd been suspecting. He closes his eyes and listens to the steady, rasping inhale—exhale—inhale—exhale.

"Jongin? You didn't just fall asleep on me, did you? I'll kill you—"

"I was just thinking," Jongin said quickly. "If you didn't end up here. If you were still in the neighborhood. What would you be doing right now?"

The next inhale gets caught between Taemin's teeth. He lets it eke out slowly like a deflating party balloon. "Why?" he asks finally. "Why would you be thinking about that right now?"

"Just never thought I'd be in the middle of the jungle, that's all," Jongin says. "Forget it."

"What would _you_ be doing, then?" Taemin's breath is hot on Jongin's cheek. Jongin hums for a moment.

"I guess if I'd stayed in school like my mom wanted, I'd be—I don't know, out of college, working in some office somewhere. Wearing a suit."

Taemin rolls his face to chortle into the mat. "You in a suit. I can't even picture that—"

"Hey." Jongin's toes connect with the broad shaft of Taemin's shin. "You asked. Don't laugh. Besides—I clean up just fine when I've got access to running water. I look good in a suit."

"Sure you do." Taemin doesn't sound convinced. "You're a real high-society type."

"What about you, then?"

Taemin pauses for such a long time that Jongin starts to suspect he's fallen back asleep until: "I don't know. I never really thought about it before."

"Come on. If you could do anything else—"

"That's what _you'd_ do? You'd be a salaryman? Wow, Jongin, you're so boring." Taemin returns the kick to Jongin's shin but gently, doesn't use nearly enough force to bruise. "Me? I'd—I don't know, be a stunt guy, maybe. Or an actor."

"Really?" Jongin's surprised. He wasn't sure what he expected Taemin to say, but—somehow, actor wasn't anywhere on the list of possibilities.

"Yeah, really," Taemin says. "Have you seen the stuff they do? I can do that shit better than they can. I'm not afraid of anything. Some of those movies make it look like fun. I've always wanted to try something like jumping out of a plane, too."

"Maybe someday you can give it a shot," Jongin says. "You ever get sick of this—"

"I can't get sick of this." Taemin retracts his hand slowly. Jongin catches at his index finger as it slithers over the crest of his hip, wraps his whole fist around it and squeezes. Taemin relaxes enough to let Jongin hold his hand in the dark. "It's not—I mean, this is okay. The jungle kind of sucks sometimes, but—I get to do whatever I want, there's no _snow_ or traffic or smog, just trees and sunshine—"

"—and rain, and mosquitoes, and people trying to rip you off, and nobody speaks the language and there's no plumbing or food carts with fish cakes," Jongin says quietly. "It's not _that_ great, Taemin. It's okay—you know, to hate what you do."

"I don't hate it." The tone of Taemin's voice is wholly unconvincing to Jongin. "I _don't_."

"I hate what I do sometimes," Jongin admits. "Sometimes I think I'm going to quit and find a place of my own, you know? Sleep in the same bed every night instead of a fucking tent somewhere in the jungle."

Taemin chuckles. "You wuss. This is an adventure."

"It's not always so bad to want stability. I'd love to stay in one place forever. Someday I will, I keep promising myself that."

"I don't think stability is where you are, though. I've been here for years now, and I don't feel like this is settling down, it's just—it'll do, until the next thing. Until there's something else I can do that's more—I don't know, useful, I guess."

Jongin rests his forehead against Taemin's, feels the brief clutch of Taemin's hand. "What's more stable than being in one place, then?" he asks. He feels dizzy, isn't sure if it's because of the heat or the close quarters or the way Taemin's leg curls into the notch of Jongin's knee.

Taemin shrugs. His face is so close that Jongin feels the blunt coldness of his nose against his cheek, little huffs of air from his mouth, the slight motion of his lips as he purses them, then sighs. "For me, it's—when I've got someone I can work with, someone I can trust. You know, without worrying about—when I know they've got my back."

Jongin's heart flattens itself across his ribcage. He feels a little stupid at how endeared he is and although he hadn't realized it until that very instant, he wants nothing more than to be someone's stability. Maybe even Taemin's. No—he can't ever be Taemin's anything. "Yeah, I guess I can see that," he agrees finally. "Me too, I think."

Taemin makes a sleepy sort of groaning noise like he's stifling a yawn and rolls forward to close the space between their mouths. Jongin's just as surprised as the first time, down at the river, but he doesn't break the kiss—this time, it's Taemin's decision to sit back, pupils blown, chest heaving. He shrinks back, suddenly shy, but Jongin chases him across the gap and Taemin relents, mouth yielding under Jongin's, warm and eager for more.

 _I'm so fucked,_ Jongin thinks. _Abort mission—get the fuck out of here—call it off—_ and then Taemin puts his hand on Jongin's crotch to test the waters and any hope for coherent thought is gone, stroked away by callused fingers that feel downy soft against Jongin's bare skin.

☠☠☠

**Seoul, 2023.**

The sky is inky and dark, devoid of any stars, when Taemin pulls Jongin across the threshold of the warehouse, peers out into the yard one more time and closes the door.

"We're safe. Nobody followed us," he says over the squeal of the bolt sliding into place.

"After the circles you took around this city, I'm surprised you even found your way home," Jongin grumbles, clutching his wrist to his chest. The drugs have worn off—so has the adrenaline—and it throbs in a way that has tears collecting at the corners of his eyes. "I know how to lose a tail, Taemin."

"And I know how to lose a law enforcement tail," Taemin retorts. "You think it's the same? Some big mobbed up bastard is going to get bored chasing you around all day, he isn't going to have the resources, the _motivation_ , he's going to wait for you to come to him—"

"Alright, alright. Forget it. It's done." Jongin leans heavily on the counter, legs crossing underneath him. He wants to lie down forever but he's so exhausted, he's a little worried he'll never be able to get back up again if he does. "I'm so fucked. I had no idea—this is bigger than I thought." He bites his lip. "And Jongdae— _fuck—_ "

Taemin stares at him.

"What?" Jongin snaps. "He didn't do this, Taemin—"

Taemin leans in, cuts Jongin off with an abrupt shove. Jongin lurches back, knocked off-balance by the sudden force. "You fucking _idiot_ , you know better. Don't go anywhere without back-up _ever again_ , I told you—"

"Hey," Jongin growls, reaching out. "I can handle it." His hands find the back of Taemin's neck and pull their foreheads flush to quiet him. "But thank you." Taemin stills, muscles tense, eyes wide with surprise. He licks his lips, eyes skittering down the length of Jongin's face as he waits for Jongin's slow mouth to press a fierce kiss against the full, rosy curve of his lower lip.

Taemin's satisfied enough with the permission he's been given to use Jongin's jaw like a handle to bring him closer and run the tip of his tongue along the curve of Jongin's smile until it parts, gasping. 

This—this is dangerous, the heady rush, the thrill of rediscovering exactly where to sink his teeth to elicit a whine, fingers gripping red marks into Taemin's cheeks. Taemin kisses like they never stopped, like he's finishing a sentence he started a year ago with a final, decisive period.

"Fuck," Jongin whispers when they surface for air. "Taemin. Thank you. I'm so sorry I dragged you into this."

"Who dragged who?" Taemin murmurs, thumb tracing circles into Jongin's skin. His breathing is ragged.

Jongin steps away. They don't dare touch each other anymore out of respect towards the gravity of the situation. Every gesture's loaded with aching want, but it's not the time. If he kisses Taemin again, he will never want to stop. "Jongdae," he repeats stubbornly instead. 

Taemin sighs. "They've probably got his place staked out. They've got to know you'd try there. You said they went to visit Chanyeol, too. You're not safe—any of your known associates, they've got to be watching them."

Now that they've stopped running and they're reasonably safe, Jongin recounts the day's events to Taemin. Taemin asks about Soojung's instructions twice and ponders the implications of Jongin's latest stunt.

"They're out for you now," Taemin says. "What did you find out before you ran? Did this security guard give you anything?"

"Honest to God, I don't even think he knew why he was sent to detain me," Jongin admits. Taemin props himself up by his elbows on the workbench and hums thoughtfully.

"So this is big," Taemin says after a moment. "This isn't—there's something else going on here. Two stories. The one the press has, and the real story." Jongin nods. "But," Taemin continues, "there's some doubt. Your team doesn't think you did it."

"I _didn't_ do it."

"Just wait, alright? We'll figure it out." Taemin steps back. "I'm going out for a few. I'll be back."

Jongin doesn't miss the _we_. It's weird. He hardly hears that word out loud, doesn't quite understand what it even means. He's been a part of Jongdae's team for the better part of a decade but only knows how to do his job independently, how to think on his feet without worrying about anyone else. Nobody else had ever been in the field with him; nobody else had ever needed his help.

"Stay here. Don't answer the door, don't turn on the lights," Taemin instructs. Jongin sits on the mattress in the dark, hands linked around his ankles, neck craned and listening to the sounds outside. He hears the rattle of a truck in the distance a few times but it's mostly quiet. Unsettlingly quiet, even.

He remembers this paranoia well. The mission in North Korea hadn't gone well and he'd spent over a week holed up in the cellar of an abandoned store, waiting for a chance to escape. He'd heard the stories about the alternative—getting thrown in some no-name jail, no records for his team to trace, no way to retrieve him. Pedestrian noise outside, the shuffle of feet—he slept fitfully, ten minutes at a time, hyper-aware of his proximity to people who would find him, turn him in. But when it was quiet it was just as nerve-wracking—no way to know what was out there, who had caught him and was just waiting for the right time to strike.

Taemin scares the hell out of him when he comes back from his errands with a box of dye, scissors. A carton of fried pork, some rice. He watches Jongin eat the whole thing and ushers him into the bathroom, hand at the small of his back. Jongin looks over his shoulder at the empty styrofoam, frowning.

"What about you? Do you ever eat?"

"I'll eat in a minute. Let me do this first."

Jongin sits on the edge of the bathtub, head bowed, Taemin's fingertips pressing into his scalp. The dye is cold. It dribbles past his ear at one point and Taemin crouches to Jongin's level to thumb at the spot until his skin is pink but clean. He catches Jongin's sullen gaze and holds it, mouth quirked into a half-smile.

"What?" He wrinkles his nose. "Don't tell me you're going to miss the blond."

Jongin shakes his head. "Never."

"It'll be easier to blend in when you don't look like this."

Jongin catches hold of Taemin's belt loops. "Taemin," he says gruffly. He's been curious ever since he woke up in the hotel and it's killing him—he just _has_ to know. "Why—why'd you come back to Seoul? What are you doing here? Why now?"

Taemin's expression sobers. "What do you mean?"

"I just." Jongin bites his lower lip. "I wasn't expecting to ever see you again—and here you are, and—I just. Don't. Understand."

"You torpedoed my whole operation, you know that?" Taemin says ruefully. "Get out of the gun trade? That was all I had. Where else could I go but home?"

"But—you knew the NIS was looking for you. They wanted you dead."

"I know. You were supposed to be the one to do it." Taemin chuckles, presses his knuckle at Jongin's temple to blot at another stray smudge of dye. "I'm really glad I didn't hire you. You're very bad at following orders. You make a terrible soldier."

"Not always," Jongin grumbles. "What was I supposed to do, should I have killed you?"

"Anyway," Taemin continues, ignoring Jongin's question, "it turns out you really _can't_ go home, especially when your parents have given up on you and told everyone you were dead."

Jongin gapes. His heart plummets like a stone. "They—really?"

"Less embarrassing than admitting the truth, I guess." He lifts a shoulder. "I don't blame them. I probably would've done the same." He laughs bitterly. "I've got a grave. Did you know? It's just an empty urn. I visit it sometimes."

Jongin wants to hold Taemin's hand but doesn't know if he's supposed to. "And now?"

"And now... I do a little of everything. The old crew doesn't know I'm alive, either—too risky, I guess, so I do odd jobs for people. You know. The kind of stuff you can't call the cops for."

"Jesus. You're not contract killing, are you?" Jongin asks, throat dry. Taemin sneers.

"You really think I would? That'd draw even more attention to me, wouldn't it?" Jongin bows his head, ashamed, and Taemin sighs, voice softening. "The doctor. Junmyeon. At the clinic. The one who saw you. He—he'll deal with street toughs. Off the books. Won't even charge, just trades them. A gun for an appointment."

"What does he do with them all?"

"That's where I come in. I dispose of them."

Jongin's eyes widen. "Dispose? Why?"

"What else am I gonna do? Can't sell them. Plus, Doc probably wouldn't pay me if he knew I was letting them get back into circulation. That's the deal: I take the guns, I disable them, I throw them into the Han." He winces. "There's some really beautiful equipment at the bottom of the river. I feel like I'm committing a mortal sin every time I do it." His eyes shine a little, almost like he's moved to tears but doesn't want to cry in front of Jongin. "The things we do to eat, huh?"

"Yeah," Jongin says. He takes Taemin's hand this time, squeezes it. "Do what you've gotta do."

Taemin clears his throat. "Yeah. Now shut up and stop distracting me or your entire neck's gonna be stained." He drops Jongin's hand and rises to his feet.

 

After it's rinsed out to a soft black, Taemin pulls out the scissors and cleans it up. He leaves the front: "Easier to hide your eyes," he explains, tousling Jongin's fringe with his fingers. "Now do mine."

Jongin takes the scissors, looks at Taemin's hair and feels it between his fingers. "But."

"Jongin. It's fucking hair. Cut it." He cradles Jongin's chin with a cupped palm. Jongin wants to kiss each of Taemin's scarred fingertips in turn. He frowns instead, shakes Taemin's hand away. Taemin rebounds, invisible strings pulling them back together. That magnetism thing at work again. Taemin leans so close that Jongin's eyes have trouble focusing. Taemin's lips part like he's going to kiss him until he halts a fraction away from Jongin's mouth, grinning, to rumble, "And if you make me look stupid, I'll get my revenge while you sleep."

☠☠☠

**Thailand, 2022.**

"It's okay if you don't want to stay, you know," Taemin says a few days later. He'd insisted on doing the perimeter check alone tonight, came back hours after sunset, reeking of gun oil and sulfur. Jongin doesn't ask and Taemin doesn't volunteer any information, just sacks out on his mat and lets his hand come to rest on the small of Jongin's back. It's so dark in the tent Jongin can't even see Taemin, but the knuckles working against the ridges of his spine are reassurance enough that he's still there.

"It's not that," Jongin says finally, hedging. "It's complicated."

Taemin makes a quiet noise, like he's exhaling through his teeth. "Okay. I'm sorry, I won't ask you again. I just wanted to make sure it wasn't because—I don't know, you felt weird about—everything."

"Everything?"

"You never meant to tell me your real name." Taemin pulls his hand away. The sudden absence leaves Jongin's skin cold.

"I wanted to, if that means anything," Jongin says softly. "Taemin." Taemin nuzzles his face into Jongin's shoulder in response.

"I haven't been called that in years. Almost forgot what my own name sounded like."

Jongin rests his chin against Taemin's forehead. "Why—"

"Seemed only fair." Taemin's face is so close to Jongin's throat that his lips brush against Jongin's collarbone as he speaks. "Now we're even."

Jongin feels warm again, like his fever's back.

"Jongin." Taemin's hand rakes through Jongin's hair, an unexpectedly tender gesture coming from someone who's supposed to be a criminal. "Seriously. I'm not going to let anything happen. You don't have to be by yourself all the time. I think we'd make a good team if you'd just let me help you."

"I—"

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think you trust me enough." Taemin swallows audibly, lets his hand skate down Jongin's bare arm. "I'm not gonna—I mean, I know. Stability, right? I understand what this means for you. If I break your trust. And I'm just saying—I won't."

"I know," Jongin whispers. "Thank you."

Jongin knows he's invited a world of complications in his lap but with those complications comes a pair of long slender limbs around his neck, a mouth sucking bruises behind his ear, fingers that rake his hair back and unbutton his shirt with the certainty of an old lover.

It's hot and sticky in the tent under the mosquito netting—even more so when Taemin peels off his undershirt and kisses the curve of Jongin's jaw, lips lingering on the soft warm patch of his pulse, nosing against his hairline.

Jongin rocks his hips up, hands scrambling for purchase on Taemin's bony shoulders. Taemin pushes him back down to lean over him, knees framing his hips, licks his tongue into Jongin's mouth until they're both panting, bodies tacky with sweat. Taemin mouths a few quiet curses into Jongin's skin, one hand cupping the side of Jongin's face, the other struggling with the button of his pants. Jongin grabs hold of Taemin's hips, pulls him into his lap, body rising to meet Taemin's eager mouth.

"See," Taemin breathes. "You should stay. I know you want to."

Jongin breaks away to whisper into Taemin's ear, "I do. I do want to stay." This is reckless but he feels drunk with it—is this what it's like to trust someone? "But I'm not a freelancer. People—people are waiting for me to come back."

"It's okay," Taemin breathes, as he nuzzles up the side of Jongin's face to kiss his temple. "I won't tell anyone."

And once Jongin breaks the seal and lets it slip that he works for the NIS, he feels free, can't stop the stories from bubbling forth. Taemin wraps his leg around Jongin's waist, nods in all the right places when Jongin feels like he's stopped making sense and kisses him until the air's been sucked out of his lungs. Jongin makes a fist around Taemin's cock and pumps until Taemin's crying into Jongin's shoulder. Jongin's thighs are sticky with sweat and semen although if it's his or Taemin's, Jongin can't really tell.

Taemin cleans them up with the edge of his blanket and pulls Jongin close to his chest. "Jongin-ah," he murmurs, already drowsy. "Thank you." Jongin's got no idea why Taemin's _thanking_ him but he tilts his face up to kiss Taemin's chin anyway.

The heat's stifling. Jongin feels a trickle of sweat creep down the nape of his neck. He doesn't shrink away from the warmth of Taemin's body, lets Taemin rest his hand on the curve of his ass and squeeze, affectionately. It fucking hurts Jongin—these little gestures, how earnest Taemin is. How desperately he wants to keep Jongin here.

But he can't.

He waits until Taemin's breathing evens out before he rolls out from underneath Taemin's arm and onto the cold ground. He's had to be out of places in five minutes or less before. In theory, it should only take him twenty seconds to get dressed. It takes him nearly twenty minutes. He keeps stopping, pants still down around his knees, to turn and watch Taemin sleep, hoping that he'll wake up to reach out and pull him back on the mat, make the decision for him. No such luck.

He scribbles a few lines on the back of a flyer that's been lying around the tent and balances it on top of Taemin's canteen to be found in the morning. He leaves his knapsack behind—leaves everything behind. He needs to travel light if he's got any chance of making it back to the river before daybreak. He unzips the tent.

One leg out the door, he hears Taemin stir. Finally. "Jongin? You okay?"

Jongin steels himself, eyes squeezed shut. "Mmm? Yeah. Just need to pee. Go back to sleep."

"Don't be long," Taemin murmurs, already drifting off again. "I'm cold."

Jongin runs and doesn't look back.

 

They're surprised to see him alive when he staggers into Chiang Saen just after daybreak. They set up a laptop with some shitty internet connection that keeps fizzling out and after the window buffers for what seems like an hour, he sees Jongdae peering at him from the screen, face haggard, chin furred with a week's worth of beard.

"Jesus," Jongdae says. The connection hiccups. "We've—everywhere—you."

"I got sick," Jongin says. "Some mosquito fever thing. The phone got caught in the rain first night I was out there. Destroyed."

Jongdae sighs angrily, looking like a worried parent. "You dumb fuck."

"I'm fine now," Jongin says. "Sorry to keep you waiting."

"And Lee Taemin?" Jongdae asks.

"Hm?" Jongin pretends the connection's acting up. Jongdae fiddles with his web camera for a moment and appears back on the screen, mouth twisted.

"Lee Taemin. Did you neutralize him?"

 _Neutralize,_ Jongin thinks bitterly, unable to shake the feeling of Taemin's hands on his face. "He's not going to be a problem."

"What?" Jongdae paws at the camera again. "Sorry, I didn't—this fuckin' thing—"

"Dead," Jongin says, swallowing heavily. "I took care of it before I got out."

"Confirmed?" Jongdae looks equal parts taken aback and relieved.

"I—" Jongin thinks about the silhouette of Taemin's body, the steady rise and fall of his chest. The hand that reached out in the dark for him. He thinks about the note waiting for Taemin. He's probably woken up and found it by now: _I told you I work for the NIS but I didn't tell you I was supposed to kill you. I can't do that. I won't. You need to lie low. Mungkorn needs to disappear, do you understand? Don't go to Japan. They'll look for you there. Get out of the arms trade. I'm sorry. It's all I can do to keep you safe._ Jongin tastes metal under his tongue. _I really did want to stay with you._ "Yeah. Confirmed."

It's the most reckless thing he's ever done. In their ten years together, he's never lied to Jongdae. Not once.

"Alright," Jongdae says. "Get checked out by the local doctor there before you leave and I'll be waiting at the air base for you. We'll talk some more." He leans forward so that Jongin can only see the pixellated outline of his tired eyes. "Thank God you're alright, you idiot. You scared everyone when you disappeared like that."

"Sorry, hyung," Jongin says, sufficiently contrite. "I didn't have a way to make contact."

"I know." Jongdae sits back. "No more of that, okay? Nice and simple next time. I'm too young and handsome to get gray hair."

☠☠☠


	3. 3

☠☠☠

**Seoul, 2023.**

He doesn't remember falling asleep but when he wakes up a few hours later he's thrashing against Taemin's chest like he's trapped there. Taemin makes a few vain attempts at catching his wrists before Jongin settles himself and sits up, panting. He feels sick.

"You okay?" Taemin asks, voice still thick and syrupy in the back of his throat. "What was that?"

"I don't know," Jongin admits. "One of those falling dreams, I think."

Taemin punches him in the bicep. "Don't do that. You scared the shit out of me. What'd happen if you did that on an assignment?"

"I'm not usually medicated on assignment."

"Quit blaming me for things." He sits back on his elbows, eyes him carefully. "What were you dreaming about?"

Jongin scrubs a hand over his face. His heart's still pounding. "I don't remember."

"Yes you do. Don't lie, I always know."

Jongin sighs heavily. "Jongdae, I think. Colombia."

"Jongdae was in Colombia with you?"

Jongin pauses. _That's not right—but—_ "He wasn't supposed to be," he says slowly. "But yeah. I think he was."

"Anything else?"

He shakes his head. "I really—wait. Yes. There was a taxi."

Taemin nods, wraps his fingers around Jongin's wrist one by one. "And?" he prompts.

"And then—I was here? He brought me..." Realization hits. "Fuck. He _knew_ shit was going to hit the fan, why didn't he bring me back to headquarters?"

"Because you're his responsibility," Taemin says quietly. "He's not going to let anything to happen to you. That's his job."

Jongin scoffs. "That's _stupid_. He's got a mother he still talks to. I've got—"

"Me," Taemin murmurs. Jongin's stunned by the bluntness of this statement until Taemin continues. "It's because of me." Every muscle in Jongin's body freezes. "You were supposed to bring me in. You told them I was dead. How is this any different?"

"Because you were innocent!"

"No I wasn't." Taemin frowns. "Jongin, I wasn't. I did what they said I did. I didn't shoot any of those people in Seoul, but I may as well have—"

"Stop."

Taemin's face softens. He reaches out to touch Jongin's neck. "I know I took care of you when you were sick, but—"

"Shut up." Jongin pulls away. "I need to go see Baekhyun right now—he's got to know where Jongdae is. I need to turn myself in—"

"Jongin. _No._ They'll be waiting for you—"

"You don't get it, Taemin," Jongin snaps. "He risked his neck for me."

"I do get it. You did the same thing."

Jongin gets to his feet, knees trembling. "And you came back for me, didn't you?" He pulls his sweatshirt on over his bare chest, peeks out through the hood at Taemin's ashen face. "Let me go," he says. And then: "Come with me. I need to find out what's going on. Baekhyun's got to know something." He watches Taemin's eyes go dark, mouth pressed into an angry line. "Please, Taemin. I need your help."

Taemin's eyebrows jerk to his hairline. Jongin's never asked for help before and he knows it's a cheap shot to do it now, that he's taking advantage of Taemin and dragging him into something dangerous _again_ but he just—he needs to know. He needs to find Baekhyun.

☠☠☠

**Seoul, 2022.**

When Jongin gets back to Seoul he goes straight to headquarters and collapses on the couch in Jongdae's office, hand shading his eyes from the blinding flicker of the fluorescent lights. He wakes up at some point, startled by the blanket someone'd thrown over him. It's hard to sleep without the sounds of the jungle cocooning him. Without Taemin's slow breathing in his ear.

"Go home," Jongdae says when he finds him in the fetal position the next morning. "You've got the key to my place. You need a shower, kid."

Jongin showers in the locker room on the third floor instead and returns to his spot on the couch, hair dripping dark spots on the upholstery.

Around noon, they receive intel that a body's been found; badly mutilated, washed up on the riverbank after a terrible storm. "It's Lee Taemin," Baekhyun confirms. "His camp's losing their shit. Chaos." Jongin's heart drops into the soles of his feet. _Somebody_ died, but he knows it's not Taemin. He'll never see him again either way. He shrugs away from Baekhyun's hand on his shoulder, his praise: "Good job, Jongin. Really clean, as usual."

"You want another job?" Jongdae asks. "Need someone in New York. You'd leave tonight."

Jongin declines. The fever left his joints brittle and creaking. He still feels fatigued after taking a piss—there's just no fucking way. "Give me a week," he asks. He's never asked before. Jongdae seems to realize it's not just convalescence.

"Take two."

 

He goes to Chanyeol's—it's the safest place to be right now. Chanyeol doesn't know enough to ask, doesn't have a fucking clue who Lee Taemin is or why Jongin's chest is aching. He gives Jongin his space, takes one look at the bags under his eyes and relinquishes the bedroom. "You look like you need it more than I do," he says. He comes in after Jongin spends the first week in bed and forces him up, makes him soup, which just feels shitty all over again when he remembers Taemin's rough hands stroking his throat, coaxing him to swallow.

"I can do it," he says crossly, knocking the spoon out of Chanyeol's hand. Chanyeol sits back.

"I know you can. But you're not." He crosses his legs at the ankles. "You look like you're ready to die."

"Who says I'm going to?"

"Jongdae asked me to check on you."

"I'm just tired," Jongin lies. "I—" _nearly died,_ he almost says. He can't tell Chanyeol anything like that. He knows too much already. "—I've been sick."

Chanyeol offers him an encouraging smile. "You look fine to me. Get up. Go back to work."

Jongin curls up against the pillows and nods. "I know. I will."

☠☠☠

**Seoul, 2023.**

"Fuck," Baekhyun says the moment he opens the door and sees Jongin standing on the front step. 

Taemin's down the street half a block keeping watch. _"First sign of trouble and I'm pulling you out of there even if I have to break down the door to do it,"_ he'd warned before slipping into the shadows.

Baekhyun crosses his arms across his chest. "Get in here." He watches over Jongin's shoulder, eyes lingering on a car that passes by the complex before he pulls the door shut and locks it twice. "You idiot. What are you thinking, showing up here? Like they're not watching any of your known associates—"

"I'm sorry—didn't know who else to go to. Jongdae's house is dark—"

"He's dropped off the grid for the moment," Baekhyun confirms. "Barely escaped termination and criminal charges with the department. I think he's a little shaken."

" _Jesus_." The color drains from Jongin's face. "What happened, hyung?"

"You tell me."

"I don't _know_. That's the fucking problem. If I had some idea of what happened, then maybe I could fix it, but—"

"Something leaked. Some important intel that traced back to a job you did in Thailand a year ago. The Dragon job. You remember?"

 _How much do they know?_ Jongin's throat goes dry. "Yeah. I—information? I didn't have anything on me. Just the guns—they made it back alright. We intercepted that shipment."

"I don't know specifics. I'm not even supposed to know what I just told you." He sighs. "I told them it couldn't possibly be you, but. Management's out for blood." He notices Jongin's cast, grabs his shoulder. "Where are you staying? Are you okay? Do you have enough supplies to lie low for a little while? Because—I can probably get you out of the country if you give me a few days—"

Jongin's mind whirls. "Out of the country? But where—"

"Baekhyun? Who is it?"

Jongin freezes when Soojung comes around the corner, hair knotted loosely at the nape of her neck, body swimming in an oversized t-shirt. He recognizes it as one of Baekhyun's, some cheesy knock-off thing he'd bought from a street vendor despite Jongin and Jongdae's best efforts to dissuade him. He's relieved that it's her, he thinks, but also confused. Since when have they—

"Jongin." She's touching his face again before he has a chance to finish his thought. Her mouth scrunches. "You're alright?"

"I'm fine. Look—I need to speak to Jongdae."

"I don't know if that's going to be possible, Jongin." Baekhyun rubs his forehead tiredly. "He's in trouble because he came to get you."

"Trouble?" Jongin's voice nearly disappears. " _Why?_ "

"The story leaked—what, Sunday?" Baekhyun looks at Soojung, who nods. "Sunday night. Jongdae was on a plane before they could shut him down. He came to get you, bring you home. They were going to let you die out there in Colombia."

Jongin closes his eyes. "I remember that much now. Sort of."

"Did he tell you anything?"

Jongin shakes his head. "I don't remember anything he said, just that he was at the hotel. Where is he now?"

Baekhyun sighs impatiently. "I don't know, Jongin."

"Yes you do. Think," Jongin says urgently. "You know him better than I do. Where would he go?"

"Look." The phone rings. Soojung excuses herself into the kitchen. "If you really need to know, give me a place I can contact you. I'll see if I can find him. But you know how he is. If he wants to be alone—"

"I need to talk to him."

Baekhyun watches his face, sets his mouth in a grim line. "Fine."

"Jongin," Soojung's voice comes softly around the corner. "You've been sighted in the neighborhood. You need to get going before they catch you."

"Fuck."

"Go out the back. I'll stall them," Baekhyun says helpfully. "Look. Give me some time to work on an ID for you and I'll ask around about Jongdae. Where are you staying?"

Jongin thinks about the warehouse. He can't do that to Taemin. "Just—I'll be with Chanyeol."

"At the club? You sure?"

"Yeah. Dawn?"

Baekhyun nods. "Fine. Dawn. I'll make some calls. Now go, before you get us all killed."

Soojung bounces up on her toes, places a feathery kiss on his cheek. "Please be careful, Jongin."

He twists the doorknob, looks back over his shoulder. "I will."

☠☠☠

**Colombia, 2023.**

Bogotá, Colombia. The air's thick. He chokes on the humidity stepping out of the airport. He's supposed to make contact with some expat in the area who's got a pulse on the inner workings of the country's criminal syndicate. Take out some enemy of the state that's been causing trouble abroad for some diplomats, maybe go for drinks. Easy. He should be back in Seoul by Wednesday at the latest.

He gets into a cab, makes eye contact with the driver and smiles, fumbles with his Spanish the way a tourist would. He catches the irritated cursing under the driver's breath when another taxi cuts them off in traffic and has to shove his hand over his mouth to stop from laughing out loud. The city whizzes by and Jongin peers up at the buildings of tall, sandy brick, arched doorways cut into the stone like yawning, black mouths. The gathering dusk makes them seem like they go on forever, vast caverns that lead to the underbelly of the city.

The taxi deposits him at his hotel. He tips double what he paid for the fair and nearly forgets to grab his bag out of the trunk before the driver's speeding off, still thumbing through the wad of bills Jongin'd handed him.

Moonkyu's waiting for Jongin at the hotel bar, already three drinks deep, arm slung around some young woman who doesn't look old enough to be out after dark. Jongin's worked with him before. He's alright, as informants go. Ex-military (aren't they always?), applied to work with the NIS a rumored five times before he walked out and renounced his citizenship to settle in warmer climes, bitter that things never quite worked out.

"Jongin," he greets, eyes still trained on the shelf of tequila across the bar. "You're blond. How was the flight?"

Jongin watches Moonkyu's companion out of the corner of his eye. She's listening to their conversation. Jongin hates it when there's a third party hanging around. He pretends not to hear Moonkyu's question and orders _aguardiente_ , neat, tips it down his throat and scrunches his eyes through the burn.

Next to him, a stool scuffs across the wooden floor of the bar and the girl slides her hand into his lap. He grits his teeth into a rigid smile, hopes she doesn't realize she's palming a gun and not some indication that he's down for her attention. "Not now, sweetheart," he manages. "Later." She sits back on the stool and shrugs, returns to her cocktail.

"How's Jongdae?" Moonkyu asks. Jongin looks at Moonkyu, then at the girl sitting between them, then down at his empty glass. Moonkyu finally catches the hint and bends to speak directly into her ear. "Hey," he murmurs, nose buried in her thick, dark curls, "leave us alone for a little while, will you? _Gracias._ "

She flashes Jongin a brilliant smile on her way past. Moonkyu watches her leave, a fond, hazy sort of expression on his face, like he's remembering something nice. Jongin really doesn't want to know.

"So," Jongin says. "Flight was fine. Jongdae's fine. What do you have for me?"

"Have another drink! Bartender—"

"I'm good. Jetlagged, though, so start talking before I fall asleep on you," he says meaningfully, flavor of anise still heavy on his tongue. He swallows a few times to dull the taste and gestures for a glass of water. Moonkyu unearths a pen from the inside pocket of his blazer, uncaps it with his teeth, and scribbles a few things on the napkin he's been using as a coaster. The ink bleeds into soft, fuzzy letters but it's still legible. _Moreno._

"The guy you want is over there." He raises the drink in front of him like he's making a toast and uses the opportunity to gesture across the bar to a table by the kitchen. Jongin clinks the rim of his water glass against Moonkyu's and squints.

"You sure?"

"Been tailing this fucker all week. I'm sure."

Jongin studies him in his peripheral vision. Big, ugly bastard—severe underbite, greasy ponytail, facial hair a teenager wouldn't even bother trying to pass off as a real beard. The paunch and yellowing pallor of a man who drinks his meals more often than not. Suspected in the kidnapping of some ambassador's kid for ransom—snatched right off the playground in broad daylight. She was recovered a few days later, scared and shaking, arm broken in three places, wrists red and chafed from binding. He'd collected the ransom and then tried to claim the reward money—ballsy as fuck. Also stupid as fuck, especially when you've got a face as memorable as that. Cameras tend to remember you.

He must know his days are numbered, that he's being watched. Jongin notes the stiff way Big Ugly carries himself, the flatly curious stares he keeps sneaking over his shoulder at nothing in particular. Paranoia. Jongin turns his face anyway and leans in to read what Moonkyu's written with exaggerated interest. He doesn't need Big Ugly to know his face. Not that it's going to matter much after tonight.

He pretends to fumble in his pants for a wallet. "How's the alley?"

Moonkyu leans forward and writes a few more things on the napkin. _No exit. Dead end. No street view, though. Decent opportunity._

Jongin purses his lips around the straw of his water. "See you in fifteen, then."

He waits until Big Ugly gets to his feet and sways unsteadily, tottering on his legs like a full ham supported by two toothpicks. He follows him out the front door and around the corner for a smoke. It's like Big Ugly's asking to die, like he knows Jongin's tired and wants to get this job over with so he can get to bed. He's practically handing Jongin the chance on a silver platter. He's dazed enough with drink that he's agreeable when Jongin bums a cigarette off him—chatty, even. He lights Jongin's cigarette and turns to look out past the dumpster through the chain link fence, comments on this _shithole of a city_ like he's not a contributing factor. He doesn't even see Jongin pull the gun. He crumples to his knees, gasping, and falls. The city's evening bustles on, doesn't pause to contemplate the shot that rings through the alley.

Jongin's certainly had more difficult marks to take down, but it's never fun to wrestle with the dead weight of an overgrown lug like Big Ugly. Moonkyu's there just in time to help Jongin flip the body into the dumpster. He smirks at Jongin when he's dusting off his hands. Jongin wipes down the gun and tosses it in after Big Ugly. That'd taken significantly less time than he'd expected. Maybe he'll even be on a plane by tomorrow.

"Nice working with you as always, Jongin." Moonkyu grins impishly and plucks the cigarette from between Jongin's lips. "Come have another drink. I think Natalia liked you."

Jongin laughs. "Nah, thanks. I'm going to check in and call it a night."

"Your loss." Moonkyu shrugs. "I'm assuming—?"

"Yeah. Jongdae's got your fee. He'll wire it right over, as soon as I call," Jongin promises, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand. He's dead on his feet now that the adrenaline's wearing off. He brushes past Natalia in the lobby who tries her best to catch hold of his belt buckle but he begs off, says goodnight in Korean before he remembers and corrects himself to Spanish. She smiles again, eyes dark and inviting. Jongin leaves her to Moonkyu.

He finally calls Jongdae on the way up to his room. Phone disconnects after the third ring, choked into silence like someone's cut the line. _Service in this country's terrible,_ he thinks, slotting his keycard into the door and kicking it open. He dials again. It rings. One, two—

"Sorry. This number is not in service."

He tries again. And again. After the sixth time, he throws the phone across the room. An uneasy prickling works its way up his spine. Something's not right. He checks his watch. It's after three pm in Seoul. Jongdae's a workaholic, stays in the office through lunch—he's definitely there, unless he's been called into the director's office for a briefing. But even if _he's_ not, Soojung should be watching the phones.

He calls Baekhyun's office and then his personal cell from the phone by his bed. The voicemail he leaves is terse, as vague as possible in case they've been compromised. "Hey. I'm done. Coming home now. Call me."

He hangs up. Just like that, mission's over. He'll have to make it back to the airport—tonight, even—and hope the plane's waiting for him. Moonkyu's going to have to wait on his money. Not like he's going anywhere, anyway.

A soft knock at his door makes him pause. A woman's voice. "Señor. Front desk. They forgot to put towels in your room."

"That's okay," he calls, rummaging in his bag for his spare pistol. "I'm not planning on showering, anyway. Can you come back later?"

She apparently doesn't hear him. The card reader beeps, latch grating open. He throws his hat into his knapsack and turns, frowning, ready to shoo the maid.

A heavy weight drops onto the crown of his head with a sharp crack that rings in his ears. Winded and dazed, he drops onto the floor, wondering if this is retribution, if Big Ugly had friends Jongin hadn't noticed, if he's going to die here in this fucking hotel room and nobody back home is ever going to know what happened to him. He blinks back tears and gapes when he sees Natalia, eyes narrowed, a statuette clutched in her hand.

"You—" he wheezes. "Where's Moonkyu—?"

"Kim Jongin. We've been waiting for you." She hits him again.

 

After that, everything's foggy. Stabs of things, slivers of memories nestling themselves back into place on his timeline. The glint of moonlight on a pistol's barrel, the cold press against his temple. The click of a safety as a thumb flips it back. He faints. He wakes up in the backseat of a taxicab, and then again, later, on a plane. Jongdae, pulling at the collar of his shirt: "Stay with me, you asshole." He wakes up a third time in the motel just as Jongdae's depositing him on the bed. "Don't worry. I'll come back for you. Don't leave the room, I will figure this out."

☠☠☠

**Seoul, 2023.**

Jongin wakes up gasping. It's all back now, he remembers everything. Taemin's crouching over him, his hands braced on Jongin's chest to steady him. Jongin sits up on the mattress, pulls his knees to his chest and bawls.

Taemin laughs nervously. "Jongin. You okay? Stop. Stop doing that."

 

Jongin paces for the next two hours, too jittery to sleep. Taemin watches him through his fringe, eyes following the tight circuit Jongin makes around the room. "You can sit, you know," he says, an hour into the vigil. "Not like you're going to make time go any faster like that."

He leaves just before daybreak. Taemin follows, footsteps crunching on the gravel like an echo that won't fade out. The greyish-gold morning light paints huge, soft shadows on the walls. Everything's a little surreal—the city so still, crouched, ready to strike at daylight. It's almost post-apocalyptic in its silence.

Jongin gets to the road before he pivots on his heel, shoes scuffing. "Listen, go back," he says. Taemin stops, juts his lower lip out.

"No."

"I'll be back."

"I want to make sure of that."

Jongin raises his fist like he's going to strike Taemin and then thinks better of it. "Jongdae's going to be there. If this is a trap—"

"—then I should be there to help you get out again—"

" _No_ ," Jongin cuts in and places his hands on Taemin's shoulders. "Then you should be as far away as possible, so we're not both hauled off for interrogation." He waits for a beat, crushes his lips on Taemin's forehead hard enough to leave a white mark that colors in slowly when he steps back. "Just go. I'll come back, I promise."

Taemin trails behind Jongin for another block and a half before he decides to comply with Jongin's wishes and doubles back, grumbling to himself and kicking loose stones. Jongin watches him go, noting the angry, rounded hunch of his shoulders. He hopes he's making the right decision. He's not looking for much right now, just the chance to save them both.

 

There are a few soldiers still stumbling drunk on the sidewalk, held up by storefront windows, who blink sleepily at Jongin as he wanders past. A few young men on work detail, spreading fresh asphalt before the midday sun banishes them indoors to escape the heat. They've long-since sweated through their loose-fitting shirts.

He doesn't know what to expect when he turns the corner and sees that the bar is dark, front door padlocked tight. He tries his luck around back. No Kyungsoo this time, just a stone propped in the jamb to keep the door open. Somebody's here, waiting for him. He accepts the rock's invitation, squeezes in through the back door and runs straight into Chanyeol, arms full of freshly-laundered bar towels. He looks surprised to see Jongin. Jongin rebounds from the impact, nose smarting.

"You're like a goddamn cat, you know that?" Chanyeol seethes, clutching at his chest.

"What, nine lives?" Jongin asks, rubbing his head where it'd collided with Chanyeol's shoulder. "Told you. You'll know for sure when I'm dead."

"No, asshole. You just show up out of nowhere." Chanyeol scowls. "We're going to get a damn bell to put around your neck."

"Somehow I think that'd mess with his stealth capabilities."

Jongin looks up when he hears Jongdae's voice. He's sitting in the corner booth, hands cupped around a styrofoam cup of coffee. He looks very tired. Jongin's only ever seen bags like that under Jongdae's eyes once before—a year ago, when he'd fallen off the radar in Thailand. His face is thin, skin greyed and pallid. There's the hint of a black eye purpling at the crest of his cheekbone.

"Hyung." Jongin moves forward into a shaft of light from the window. Jongdae's eyes narrow at the brightness, like it's too hard to look at Jongin. Jongin steps forward, out of the light, and Jongdae's eyes stay slanted. Jongin can see him properly now: a thin gash bisects the plane of his forehead, deep carmine and scabbed over. It's maybe a week old. Jongin peers at it and wonders. Across the bar, Chanyeol busies himself taking down chairs, meticulously arranges them two paces apart like it matters, like his set up won't be broken down by patrons the minute he opens the door.

“Jongdae. Hyung," Jongin begins, voice plaintive. "Where have you been?”

“Where have I been? Where have I _been_?” Jongdae’s voice cracks a little on the last word, incredulous. His grip tightens on the coffee. “I’ve been—at _headquarters_ , for starters, in those basement interrogation rooms they save for the VIP perps. Thanks for that, I've never been on the other side of the two-way mirror before."

Jongin watches his reflection stretch in the bowl of an overturned spoon. He takes it between his fingers and the image breaks into two. For a moment he thinks Taemin's standing next to him, but he looks behind him and he's alone.

"Lee Taemin's alive, Jongin."

Jongin sits down or his knees give out on him—he's not really sure which. Jongdae swallows audibly.

"Yeah. I know you knew. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I—I'm _sorry_. How did you—?"

"I'm trying to figure out if you deliberately tried to screw us all, or if you just made a huge mistake in a moment of weakness. Either way, you're a dumb motherfucker, Kim Jongin. Did you realize the _minute_ the director received that intelligence report you'd be finished?" He's squeezing the cup so hard by now that the plastic lid pops up like the conclusion of a crude jack-in-the-box. "Did you really think no one would find out? He's in _Seoul_ , Jongin."

"I know," Jongin whispers hoarsely.

"It's funny. Two weeks ago, sitting in the Monday briefing. Minseok told me about some suspicious activity, said the guy looked like you and showed me some surveillance footage of some clinic across the river. I've seen Taemin's file." Jongin closes his eyes. He doesn't need to see Jongdae's face to listen to the rest. "I know what he looks like. You guys could be brothers. You _idiot._ How long did you think you could hide him here? Right under our noses? Do you think that little of us?"

"That's not true, hyung, I—"

"Don't. I don't want to know, I don't care." Jongdae pinches the bridge of his nose. "You're in deep shit, Jongin. You're not even supposed to be alive right now. If Baekhyun hadn't kept tabs on your cellphone, you'd be dead right now. And Moonkyu. Barely found _him_ before he'd been beaten to death by one of Moreno's henchmen."

"Moreno?"

Jongdae slams his fist on the table. Coffee splashes everywhere. "Your mark, you asshole. Are you that brain-dead?"

"Yes. Of course, I'm sorry, I just—I didn't remember. We—we took care of him," he recalls. "It was done."

"It wasn't done. Not when headquarters had pulled the plug and left you twisting in the wind. You know how many enemies you've made over the years? How many people want to kill you just to get to us, to this agency?"

"You could've called."

"Not when our line had been disconnected. Your cards had been cancelled. There was no way of finding you to tell you there'd been a leak, that Moreno had an inside man—or, woman, I guess, as it turned out—who knew we were onto him, that the hit had been called off until we could figure out who it was."

"But you were there. You came and got me," Jongin says quietly. "I remember that."

"If you remember, then you should've stayed hidden instead of showing up at headquarters with a fucking _dead gunrunner_ —"

Jongin flinches. "Don't."

"What I don't understand is _why_ , Jongin? Why did you do that? You've never—I never thought you'd be the one to fuck up like this." Jongdae sits back. "Why was he worth the risk? You've dealt with assets before. What makes Lee Taemin worth saving?"

"He was—" _more than that,_ Jongin wants to say. "Not the person you sent me to take down," is what he says after a moment.

Jongdae nods. "I figured you'd say that, so I brought these." He drops a few glossy 3x5s on the table between them. Crime scene shots. The bodies are twisted, limbs splayed into grotesque, unnatural positions. Jongin frowns.

"What are these?"

"Every victim Taemin's responsible for. He facilitated the movement of these guns into Seoul. The blood's on his hands."

Jongin rears back, disgusted. "Stop that."

Jongdae leans forward, waving one of the pictures in Jongin's face. "Look. Look at the person you threw away your career for. Look what he's capable of."

Jongin slaps his hand away. "What about _me_ , then? You know what I'm capable of. I've actually killed people. I've watched people die because I was told they needed to be dead." He pushes the pictures back across the table. "What, you think these pictures make me feel guilty? How many people have died as a direct result of my actions? You think this would make me think less of him? You think I didn't already know?"

Jongdae looks like he's going to cry. "Jongin," he whispers. "What happened to you?"

Jongin feels a quiet hysteria creeping under his skin. It’s a bad dream. He’s going to wake up in Colombia and he’s _never_ going to drink the _aguardiente_ again, because this is the scariest nightmare he’s ever had. He closes his eyes for a beat. Jongdae’s still in front of him when finally he opens them, eyebrows still arched together, face plaintive and sad. "Nothing's changed, hyung. I'm—what do you want me to say?" he asks helplessly.

"Tell me I'm wrong,” Jongdae says in a tone that sounds suspiciously like he’s begging. “Tell me you didn't lie, that you were mistaken. Tell me where he is and maybe I can help you, go to the director and see what he can do about dropping the charges, putting you on a desk somewhere. You were a good agent—"

"No."

"No?" Jongdae repeats dumbly, mouth rounding over the word like it's got a foul taste. "No what?"

"I've been publicly outed, Jongdae. They showed my fucking picture on the evening news—I'm done with the NIS." He draws a shallow breath, holds it for a beat before he continues. "And even if I weren't, there's just no way I'm trading his life for mine. It doesn't work like that."

Jongdae squints, puzzled. "It always did before."

"That was before."

"You were on assignment," Jongdae hisses. "And what about Baekhyun, huh? I know you haven't been around much lately to know this, but he wants to marry Soojung. How the _fuck_ is he supposed to do that if he's behind bars?"

Jongin closes his eyes. "Jail? I didn't—"

"No. Of course you didn't think. You're too busy fucking some criminal to remember there are people here who have your back—who have a fucking vested interest in your life and your well-being." Jongdae sighs impatiently. "I know you always work like you're by yourself, but _think_. Who the fuck makes contact with your assets and does your research and even gets you ammo for your fucking guns—"

Jongin bows his head.

"Jongdae," Chanyeol says reproachfully, fingers gripping into the cracking red pleather of the booth. "Go easy."

"Chanyeol, all due respect, but you haven't got a _fucking_ clue what you're talking about, you shouldn't even be hearing this—"

"We're talking about Jongin, aren't we? He's my best friend," Chanyeol says indignantly. "I know _him_. He doesn't do shit like this unless it's important. And if this Taemin guy is that important, then... I'm going to trust that what he did was right."

A pang of affection washes over Jongin. Blindly loyal like an oversized dog, Jongin's unlikely protector in his time of need, Park Chanyeol. "No, Chanyeol. Not—just, no. I was wrong," he murmurs, saying it aloud for the first time. "I was stupid. I put everyone in danger. I broke their trust, and I didn't think anyone would find out—"

"Should've told your boyfriend to stay dead," Jongdae spits.

Jongin winces. Chanyeol's hand is warm and heavy on his shoulder. Jongin really, really appreciates the comforting gesture right now, especially when Jongdae's berating him like an angry parent.

"Baekhyun's back at headquarters right now working on a new cover for you. If he doesn't get caught and his ass thrown in jail, we can get you out of the country tonight." Jongdae's never sounded sincerely menacing in his life until this very moment. "I suggest you run while you still can."

"What's going to happen to Taemin?" he asks, eyebrows lifting. He watches Jongdae chew on his lower lip for a moment before he glances back up at Jongin, frowning.

"No. No fucking way. I'm not helping a criminal leave the country. He figured out how to get in, he's on his own getting out."

Jongin leans forward. "Then I'm staying."

"No," Jongdae snaps, thrusting a finger in Jongin's face. "Stop thinking about him. This is about you. You get the fuck out of here. You go somewhere safe where they can't find you, and you wait for this to blow over."

"What about you?" Jongin asks. His voice is very small. "What are you going to do?"

Jongdae swallows. "What about me? I've got to go testify under oath that I had no idea what the fuck you were up to, that I didn't know that you've been fraternizing with a known enemy of the state. Someone you were supposed to have killed a year ago."

Chanyeol slams a fist against the table. "But you didn't know. Nobody did."

"You think they care? The government took credit for Mungkorn's assassination and now there are reports he's been spotted alive and well on the streets of Seoul? We've got his face on surveillance tapes. The NIS looks like a bunch of assholes, _forget_ about the president. Someone's got to take the blame for this fuck-up."

Jongin rubs at his eyes with his fists. "Jongdae," he says desperately, "you _can't_ do this—"

"I have to."

"But you came and got me even when you weren't supposed to. You hid me. You _lied—_ hyung, they're going to punish you for treason. For helping me."

"Worst-case, but I doubt it." Jongdae shrugs, sounding confident. "They don't want to charge agents with treason." He waves a flippant hand. "Makes the whole agency look bad. It'll be okay."

"But your mom—"

"I did my job, Jongin. I kept you alive." He smiles sadly, voice stripped of its earlier venom. "I'll take responsibility for this. I should have confirmed the kill independently. I knew—you were weird when you came back. I kept telling myself that you'd been sick... I should've figured something else happened." The bench creaks when he stands up. "Go. I'll have Baekhyun meet you back here when we're ready."

"Hyung—”

Chanyeol tethers Jongin to the seat by his shoulder and doesn’t let him follow Jongdae out the gently swinging door. "This guy," Chanyeol says quietly after a moment.

"Yeah?" Jongin tears his eyes from the door to look up at Chanyeol. "Who?"

"This Taemin guy."

"Yeah."

Chanyeol takes a deep breath, buries his fists in his pockets. "He knows. It sounds—it sounds like he knows a lot."

"He knows everything," Jongin admits softly. Chanyeol looks up, his eyes wide with astonishment.

"You told him?" The hurt's lurking just beneath the surface of his tone. It's not difficult to recognize. "I don't even know what you do when you disappear for weeks on end."

"It's not—it's not like that, Chanyeol. It was—safer for you if you didn't know everything."

"I understand. It's okay," Chanyeol breezes, turning his back on Jongin, and Jongin knows: it's really not. He looks back at the spoon, sees only himself, and realizes he hasn't actually been alone until this very moment.

 

Later, he sits at the end of the bar to polish silverware for Chanyeol until Baekhyun arrives. It helps to keep his hands busy and his mind focused elsewhere. There's something incredibly relaxing in the slow circles he traces against the tines of the forks until they gleam dimly in the low light.

"You'd be a decent barback, you know," Chanyeol says, breaking the silence between them. Jongin snorts into the palm of his hand.

"Are you offering me a job?"

"No way. Who wants to waste the time training a guy who's wanted by their government? Never know when they're going to show up and drag you to jail." Chanyeol says, only half-joking. Jongin opens his mouth to speak, to apologize, to tell him everything as a way to make amends, but suddenly Baekhyun appears through the swinging kitchen door, manila envelope in hand. He looks pleased with himself.

"I'm a fucking genius," he announces, raising his arms like a prizefighter. "All hail, thank you, thank you. No autographs, please."

Chanyeol rolls his eyes. "And modest, too."

"My mother told me that telling lies is wrong." Baekhyun grins cheekily. "I make it a point to tell the truth at all times." He turns to Jongin and drops the envelope in his lap. "One felonious set of falsified documents, hot off the presses."

"Jesus, that's fast," Jongin marvels, pawing through the contents of the envelope. There's a birth certificate, a driver's license. A passport, a plane ticket. Some (real) American cash. "How did you—"

"Told you, baby. I'm just that good."

Jongin recognizes the passport photo from one of his earlier cover IDs and squints. "You mean you just pulled one of the cover IDs you'd already processed for an earlier mission."

Baekhyun's face falls. "When you put it like that, it destroys the magic."

Jongin curls his fingers around Baekhyun's shoulder. "I'm sorry. You're a genius, hyung."

Instantly, Baekhyun's expression brightens. "I know." He crooks an arm around Jongin's neck like he's going to give him a noogie but seems to think better of it and just hugs him instead. "I've already wiped this stuff from the database. They're not going to know this is one of your aliases."

Jongin nods resolutely, still ensnared by Baekhyun's arm. "Thank you—"

"Oh, shut up, I don't even want to hear it," Baekhyun says, releasing his stranglehold to back away towards the door. "Just remember. You owe me a trip to the Statue of Liberty when I come to visit you. And, like, all the pizza I ask for."

"Hyung," Jongin begins hesitantly. "Can you—what's going to happen to Jongdae?" He gulps. "And you?"

"Hey," Baekhyun says, voice suddenly serious. "Don't worry about it, Jongin. Even if you turned yourself in and cooperated, you're looking at three years, at least. Prison's not easy. I know you're used to roughing it, but. Prison."

"But Jongdae said—"

"I know. He tried to scare you. He's pissed." Baekhyun shrugs. "I don't think any of us will actually do any time. Maybe demotion or termination, but..." He smiles. It droops a little at the edges, heavy with so many other things he should be saying to Jongin, but Jongin knows—Baekhyun's always indulged him, that he's not going to say the things Jongin probably deserves to hear. "You were very good at keeping us in the dark. We really had no way of knowing, so. Thanks for that. We'll live to see another day."

"Still," Jongin protests, "you want to get married, hyung, and I had no idea—"

"Yeah, and now you're going to miss the wedding," Baekhyun teases, his eyes tight and crinkled at the corners. "I expect a gift. Cash. Big bills. Lots of them. And a new television. Now go, before you miss your flight. Be safe, Jongin."

The door swings roughly after him, shuddering in his wake.

 

Jongin says goodbye to Chanyeol, who hugs him and tells him to call as soon as it's safe, and then hitches a ride across town on a delivery truck to meet Taemin back at the warehouse. He's already packed the few things he owns and tidied up the place like he's not coming back. The mattress slumps up against the wall, box fan beside it, cord wrapped neatly and secured with a length of twine. That's it—the only evidence left that anyone'd been living here for months.

They catch the bus at the corner and sit separately, pretending not to know each other. Jongin goes all the way to the back and watches Taemin doze off on the shoulder of the passenger next to him. At some point Jongin drifts off too and wakes up to find Taemin's moved all the way to the back to sleep next to him, mouth open and drooling.

"Thought we were splitting up," Jongin says when Taemin stirs and blinks grouchily, rubbing at his eyes with a balled fist.

"Changed my mind," Taemin mutters, wiping at the dried saliva at the corner of his mouth with his sleeve. It comes off in flakes. "Safety in numbers and all that."

Against his better judgment, Jongin reaches over and tucks his fingers in the spaces between Taemin's. Taemin squeezes twice and looks out at the city hurtling past the window.

 

At Incheon, Jongin checks in under his alias. No problems, thanks to Baekhyun's meticulous work. Taemin disappears for a few minutes and then returns, head bobbing through the crowd as he looks for Jongin, a plane ticket and passport tucked under his arm. He grins when Jongin raises an eyebrow but Jongin doesn't know how to ask, so Taemin doesn't volunteer anything.

The line for security is miles long, winding through three rows of stanchions bound together by retractable elastic belts. Jongin looks at the metal detectors, then down at his shoes, then back to Taemin, who's watching him expectantly, tapping his passport on his thigh.

"You ready?" he asks, an excited leer plastered across his face. It figures Taemin of all people would be inappropriately gleeful about escaping the country. "Your biggest mission yet. Operation Escape the Motherland."

Jongin rolls his eyes. "We never named them things like that."

"Sure you didn't. I've seen the movies," Taemin jokes, stepping forward to get in line. Jongin thinks about movies, about _007 Wing_ and Jongdae and Baekhyun sitting in a jail cell and the weight of his memories make his chest ache. He hangs back.

"I'm—no." He clears his throat. "I'm not. Ready, I mean."

Taemin chuckles. "You afraid of flying all of a sudden?"

"No." Jongin can't believe the words coming out of his mouth. Taemin seems equally taken aback. "I can't leave them now. My team. They're—this is my fault, and they're going to lose their _jobs_ if I don't—I can't take that away from them, it's all they have."

"It was all you had, too," Taemin reminds him, hand warm around Jongin's elbow. "Jongin, you know they're going to arrest you if they find you."

"I know. I know they are." He presses the heels of his hands into his eyelids, sparking patterns of light across his vision. "But if I cooperate and turn myself in, maybe it won't be so bad."

When he removes his hands and looks up, blinking, Taemin's mouth is hanging open. "You're serious, then."

Jongin suspects he'd made up his mind hours ago, that he's only finding the courage to do this now because he realizes it might just be possible to save everyone. Because leaving means he's doing it again, making the selfish decision for himself instead of taking care of the people who are going to be in trouble for protecting him. 

"Here," he says, pressing the passport into Taemin's startled hands. "Take mine instead. Just go."

Taemin pulls back like he's been burned. "Are you stupid?" He slaps the passport away. "You know what kind of hellhole's waiting for you?"

Jongin shrugs. "I've lived in worse conditions."

"How long?" Taemin asks after a pause. His fingers are shaking. He runs them through his hair to keep them busy.

"Baekhyun thinks three. If I cooperate." Taemin scowls fiercely and turns towards the window. Jongin realizes he's trying not to cry and grabs onto the collar of his jacket. "Hey. Go to New York. I'll meet you there."

"Three years is a long time."

"You'll find something to keep busy."

Taemin huffs impatiently. "My English is absolute shit."

"Well. That'll help kill the time." He taps the passport. "It's all there. Baekhyun's very thorough. I figure we look enough alike that no one's going to know. The fake job history should be enough to get you in the door somewhere." He smiles. "Just don't fuck it up. I'm going to need a place to crash when I get out."

The loudspeaker crackles to life. Taemin's got to get through security soon. His flight is boarding.

"Go."

"You're ditching me again." Taemin looks stricken for a moment, eyes wide and shining—a little boy lost in a big world, so unlike the first time they'd met. He looks softer like this, more vulnerable. _Scared._ Jongin leans in and rests his mouth against the bridge of Taemin's nose.

" _Go._ I mean it," he urges.

Taemin's grip loosens, one finger at a time. Jongin does his part too, backs away until there's enough space between them to play a football match, filled with bodies all bustling to get somewhere in a hurry. Taemin doesn't move an inch, doesn't even acknowledge the little wave Jongin flings in his direction, just stares blankly at a spot on the floor.

When he can't see Taemin anymore he turns on his heel, bag digging into his shoulder. He contemplates it for a moment before he abandons it on a luggage carousel to languish forevermore in a delayed baggage office somewhere in the bowels of the airport.

There's a policeman standing just outside the sliding glass doors. He doesn't seem to notice Jongin. It'd be so easy to slip right by, get lost in the crowd—but no. Jongin takes a deep breath and steps up, taps him on the shoulder with a crooked index finger.

"Excuse me," he says. The officer turns and stares at him blankly until recognition pulls his eyes open wide and he grins like he's just won the lottery.

"You—You're—"

"Yeah," Jongin says. "I'm the traitor, Kim Jongin. I think somebody's looking for me." He smiles feebly. "Mind giving me a ride?"

☠☠☠

**Seoul, 2026.**

 

Baekhyun's waiting for Jongin when he gets out. He's sitting there waiting for the officer to finish signing his release forms, sees the familiar grin through the glass window of the discharge office and nearly cries with relief. Jongdae's there too, scuffing his heel against the frayed carpet, fists buried in the pockets of his jeans.

"You skinny fuck." Baekhyun holds him at arm's length and surveys him like he hasn't visited every Saturday since Jongin went inside. "What were they feeding you?"

"I'm fine, _Mom_ ," Jongin protests, shaking him off. "Stop."

"You sure you won't stay?" Baekhyun asks. "Soojung made up the guest room—you haven't seen the new house, or Jonghee—"

Jongin hides his smile in the collar of his jacket at the mention of Baekhyun's new daughter. "You sent me pictures."

"Wasn't sure if you were getting them."

"Yeah. I got them."

"How about the articles?"

"Those too." Jongin settles into the backseat next to Jongdae. There's a satchel at his feet—packed, ready to go.

"How about that, huh? You think—"

"Yeah," Jongin says. "Yeah. It's definitely him."

"I figured. The company's name—the alias—it fits." Baekhyun catches Jongin's eye in the rearview mirror. "We started picking up intel maybe two years ago, involvement in a few African deals that just seemed... familiar."

"Guns?" Jongin's chest tightens.

"No. Moving shipments of medication, water. Stuff like that. He's on the right side of things this time." He chuckles. "Don't worry. I've been keeping an eye on it. Everything seems aboveboard. He's doing well. Moving his way up through the ranks very quickly."

 _Of course he is; he always does._ "That’s good," Jongin says hoarsely. “Really good.” The tension unwinds from his shoulders and falls away. _He listened._

"Well. It's all here. Your new life." Baekhyun says, breaking through Jongin's daze to hand him a manila envelope over the seat. Jongin tips the contents out in his lap and stares—a New York State driver's license, a passport. A social security card. He picks it up and reads it.

"Alex Kim?"

"Soojung picked it. She says you look like an Alex."

“I do?” He squints, tips the license into the light. A faint hologram shimmers across his picture. “What does that even mean?”

“I try not to ask when she’s within reach of heavy objects, which is pretty much always.”

Jongin catches Jongdae's quiet chuckling out of the corner of his eye and turns. "How are you?" It's the first thing he's said to him in three years. Jongdae cracks a smile.

"I'm fine. You dumb bastard." He startles Jongin with an unexpected embrace, hugs Jongin tightly and buries his face in Jongin's shoulder. Jongin locks his hands around Jongdae’s waist like he doesn't want to let go. They’ve been through a lot together over the past decade, but he's never really hugged Jongdae before. Not even after a successful mission—it was always just a high five or a handshake, maybe an exchanged round of drinks. But Jongin relishes the deviation, especially considering what Jongdae went through to keep Jongin safe. It’s been three years of radio silence from Jongdae’s end and Jongin’s just _relieved_ that his partner’s speaking to him again. He hugs him back.

"You've got to go right now?" Baekhyun asks again. He barely hides the pleading from his tone. "Soojung would love to see you—and I know Chanyeol's disappointed—"

"Baekhyun," Jongdae says softly, sitting back against the seat. "Stop. Let him go."

 

They don't even bother getting out of the car to say goodbye. Baekhyun pulls up to the curb, nudges the car into park and waits. His hands are still at ten and two like an expectant wheel man, poised and ready to flee.

"I'm—this is weird. I feel like I'm never going to see you again,” he says, eyes catching Jongin’s in the rearview mirror. Jongin swallows around the phantom lump lodged deep in the back of his throat and beams.

"Guess that's up to you," he teases, shouldering his bag. "Planes go both ways. Hyung, I'll be fine."

"I know. You always are."

"Hey, I'm not around to clean up your messes anymore," Jongdae warns, face peering out of the cracked window. "Don't piss off any cartel members or anything stupid like that."

Jongin nods. "I think I'm done with all of—that, you know? It’ll be nice to just settle down. Relax.”

“You don’t know how to relax,” Baekhyun calls. "You'll be begging us for your old job back within the month, I bet."

“I do now. I’m too old for that shit, hyung.”

Jongdae wags his finger. "We'll be watching."

“I know you will.” Jongin salutes. “And if you’re ever in New York—”

“Yeah, definitely.” Jongdae’s smile disappears behind the tint of the window as it rolls closed. Baekhyun revs the engine a few times and peels away, hand outstretched, fingers waving goodbye past the side mirror.

Jongin steps back onto the sidewalk. He's got a few hours before his flight—plenty of time to kill, formulate a game plan. Not that he hasn’t thinking about this very moment since the moment he went inside. He used to lie awake at night listening to the gritty shuffle of the guards patrolling the cell block, imagining what Taemin was doing at that very moment. Most nights it was good—something like the late afternoon sun glinting gold off his skin, attention wrapped around the project on his workbench.

Sometimes, though, Jongin’d drift off and wake up sweating, the image of Taemin’s fingers wrapped around the grip of a machine gun so vivid he swore he was having a premonition, that Taemin was in _trouble_ —

But he’s not. He’s okay. Safe. These articles Baekhyun gave him prove it.

He pulls a folded stack of papers out of his pocket. They’re creased to hell, gone soft under the constant touch of his fingertips, but they're important. The key to what Taemin's been up to these past few years. The security company in Flushing, Queens. Baekhyun’s really done his research. Company’s mostly a front—of course it is—and Baekhyun’s right about the deals in Africa, they’ve got Taemin’s fingerprints all over them. He’s even using his old alias again, _Dragon_ , flaunting it in the face of intelligence agencies like he’s not red-flagged in most of Southeast Asia. _But_ —it’s different this time. He’s undercutting instead of assisting the work of rebels in the area. A complete 180 from the last time Jongin came looking for him. And the name of the company. _KTown Allied Interests._

_KAI._

Fucking Taemin. Always in the middle of things, hiding in plain sight.

"It's going to get you caught one of these days," Jongin murmurs, putting the paper back in his pocket. He's smiling, though, ready to finally catch up to the stability he's been chasing all these years so he can just sit for a minute and breathe. "Good job,” he says, like Taemin’s standing right there, a little more confident this time. “I'm on my way." Hands outstretched, he pushes through the glass doors of Incheon’s international terminal, works his way into the crowd of travelers, and disappears.

☠☠☠


End file.
